


The Sassenach

by JustAnotherWriter (N1ghtshade)



Series: Heather+Thistle [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016), Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Outlander Fusion, And one event, British soldier Jack, Gen, Highlander MacGyver, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Adopts Everyone, Jack's Found Family, Outlander AU, Scotland, Sorry if you came to this from the Outlander fandom I literally just used the setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-29 17:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtshade/pseuds/JustAnotherWriter
Summary: Scotland-1738Major Jack Dalton is tasked with quelling the Jacobite rebels roaming the Highlands. But his sense of duty and his sense of humanity are challenged by his newest prisoner.





	1. Whip+Knife

**Author's Note:**

> So this hadn't been done, to my knowledge, but it was just begging to be written, in my opinion. You can't get more Scottish than Angus MacGyver. And I love both these fandoms so I just had to try. I mean, Jack as a British soldier. And Mac in a kilt. Too good to pass up.  
> For clarity, I had to change some of the names to make them period accurate, so Riley became Rebecca and Wilt became Will. Other than that, everyone is the same.  
> Apologies in advance for messed up military/Scottish terms. Everything I know I learned from Outlander and Google.

A clatter of hooves and jingle of tack and weapons broke the misty stillness of the Scottish morning. Major Jack Dalton’s men were tired, wounded, and restless. They’d spent the past month combing the Highland hills for any sign of a group of Jacobite troublemakers. The band had been making raids on British supply trains. But they were cunning enough to escape even Jack’s seasoned troops.

Colonel Murdoc, the commander at Fort Douglass, where Jack was stationed, would be disappointed. He’d told Jack to do whatever was necessary to bring the Jacobites in, including burning the homes and farms of anyone who sheltered the men, and torturing those who were loyal to the cause for information. Jack had ignored this, as he ignored most of the colonel’s more brutal suggestions. He knew some of his men would have liked nothing better than to release their frustrations on the men-or women-of the local villages, but Jack had always believed he got more by being respectful of people than brutal. It didn’t hurt that his mother had been half-Scotch and some of these men might be his relatives. He wouldn’t hesitate to make it clear that if anyone harmed his men, there would be consequences, and he’d more than once gotten into some nasty fist brawls, but for the most part he tried not to stir up this festering hate any more than necessary.

In most cases, Jack’s methods worked. The people might not truly like him, but they did trust him at least enough to help him track down raiding outlaw bands who stole from the English and Scottish alike. But this time, the Jacobite group was harassing only the British and no one was willing to turn them in. Jack had the feeling they might be locals, but nothing had ever been proven.

His horse stumbled, nearly tossing him over her head. He pulled her to a halt with a muffled curse. The old black mare had been with him since his first Highland posting. He’d found her wandering wounded on the moor with a dead Jacobite in her saddle and kept her. She was heavier than the English horses, and better able to walk for hours in the inclement weather and thick, sucking mud and weeds. He’d hate to lose her or have her lamed up.

Jack slid off his sweating, mud-caked horse and walked to her left flank, patting her side until she reluctantly raised her foreleg. He yanked away the thistle stem wrapped around her fetlock and tossed it into the rain-soaked grass.

“Blasted Highlands. Everything wants to fight us. Even the damned plants.” He checked her leg, but fortunately the thick hair covering most of her hooves had kept the thorns from tearing at her. She’d been more spooked than anything by the collision with the plant.

Nearly an hour later, the tall stone walls of Fort Douglass loomed up out of the last of the mist. The sun was just coming up over the edges of the stone, and Jack had to admit this was the most beautiful land he’d ever seen. _I guess everything beautiful I ever find wants to kill me._

After looking after his horse (she was a stubborn fool who hated everyone but Jack and would kick any groom who came near her), he walked into his small office, which doubled as the parlor of his living quarters, and kicked off his boots. The sound brought an annoyed shout from the back of the house.

“Jack! Don’t bring your filthy boots in here! I just swept this floor!” Rebecca emerged from the smaller bedroom, holding the bridle she’d been repairing and slapping a book of accounting figures onto the small table that served as Jack’s work desk.

“You were worried?” Rebecca never obsessed over cleaning the house unless she was afraid of something. Maybe Jack’s month-long absence had worried her.

“Never. You can take care of yourself. And if you did die, I wouldn’t have to clean up your messes.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll get it.”

“You’d better, or you’ll find your stew tonight tastes like boot leather.” Rebecca whisked the offending boots onto a rug near the door. “It is good to have you back. The house was entirely too quiet without you clomping about like an overgrown bear.”

“I missed you too. You’d have had a ready answer for every Highland wit who made fun of the regiment.” She smiled. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with those Scottish wash women. They’ve only made you more ready to speak your mind.” He smiled back at her. “You certainly have become a Highland lassie.”

Rebecca had been the slave of Jack’s former general. When he’d seen the man strike her with a fire iron for leaving his dinner go cold when she was ill and half-fainting, Jack had offered to buy her on the spot. It hadn’t been too terribly hard to convince the man the money Jack was offering (all he had saved to buy a small cottage with a bit of land, so he could finally marry Lady Sarah Adler) was enough to take a “problem” girl off his hands.

It had taken months for Rebecca to trust Jack, even though he signed her free papers within a week. She’d heard the harsh things he said about her to convince General Davis to sell her, and she thought he meant every word. He had to prove to her he cared one day at a time. Now, six years later, Rebecca was like a daughter to Jack in every way.

He’d never married, after that. Sarah found a man who had the money Jack had given up, and she was happily married with twins and last he’d heard, expecting another. Jack had all the family he needed in Rebecca, and he’d never found another woman he loved like he loved Sarah.

He’d tried to get Rebecca to stay in Devon when he took the Highland posting, but she’d refused. She’d been twelve then, full of fire and life and a hunger for adventure. Not that much had changed, except that that fierceness was now the courage and strength of a woman and not the daring foolhardiness of a girl. He’d asked her time and again, now that she was seventeen, if she’d rather return to civilization and society. But it seemed the Highland wild had wound itself in her blood. And that one of the camp farriers, a fellow freedman named Will, had found a way into her heart.

Rebecca was about to return to her bridle mending (likely a favor for Will) when there was a loud commotion outside the window. “Jack, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Captain Thornton is drunk again.” The man was notorious for his drinking exploits; he often challenged the Highlanders to see who would be drunk under the table first. To his credit, he won better than half the time. But he was certainly not the most amiable drunk. Jack would never forget the brawl in Dumfries.

“It’s Colonel Murdoc. He rode out with fifteen men yesterday.”

“Why?” Jack jumped up to stare out the window as well.

“Will heard them say they’d found one of the Jacobites. Someone he was sheltering with turned him in.”

Jack watched the men ride in. Colonel Murdoc was in the lead, his pale grey horse covered in lather and mud. _The man rides hard. He’s already killed three mounts, and barely been fort commander for a year._ Murdoc was harsh and demanding with his animals, his men, and his job. He never wasted a moment. Jack hated working under such a brutal commander, but he feared if he left there would be no one to hold the man in check. At least Jack could mitigate the damage.

Behind Murdoc, two mounted soldiers were half-leading, half-dragging a prisoner. Jack couldn’t see his face, because a tangled, muddy mess of straw-blond hair hid all of it, but he could see the bound wrists, rope so tight there was blood dripping down over delicate hands with slim, dirty fingers. The man’s tartan kilt was so mud-soaked it was hard to tell which family the tartan belonged to, and his feet were bare and caked in muck. Jack flinched, remembering pulling the thistle from his mare’s leg. The man’s feet must be shreds.

The group halted in the middle of the yard, and Murdoc dismounted, handing his exhausted horse over to a groom. He strode purposefully across the yard to Jack’s house. Jack stepped back from the window, not wanting to be caught staring.

“Major Dalton,” Murdoc said sharply, when Jack opened the door to his knock. “We have taken a prisoner, and I require your assistance to interrogate him. I am aware you and your men have just returned, but time is of the essence. If we are to find his confederates, we must strike quickly, before they realize we have found him.”

Jack nodded. _This will be ugly._ He could see the crazed gleam in Murdoc’s eyes. He might as well be there to try and keep the colonel from beating the man to a bloody pulp though.

Murdoc’s office was like the man himself. Neat and orderly, papers arranged in a precision that made Jack shake his head. He was fond of the haphazard chaos of his desk. He knew where everything was. In a hard wooden chair, the captured Jacobite was sitting, hands still bound, head down. He looked up when Jack and Murdoc approached, and snarled something in Gaelic. Jack didn’t know the language well enough to be able to identify what it was, but it couldn’t be anything good.

He was more a boy than a man, Jack thought. He looked barely older than Rebecca, and underneath the mess of hair his bright blue eyes showed all the fear his ramrod-straight posture and defiantly lifted head tried to hide.

“Ye’re wasting your time, _Sassenachs_. I’ll tell you nothing.” The boy’s voice was deep, with a heavy brogue, and his words came slow, like he wasn’t accustomed to the English ones. One of the real holdouts.

“If you think you can protect your fellow traitors, you’re mistaken. We will find them. It’s only a matter of how much you need to suffer before we do.” Murdoc knelt beside the boy and gripped his left shoulder, which was awkwardly lower than the other. The boy hissed but said nothing. “Your so-called friends have abandoned you. Where were they when you were wounded? They left you behind, and the people you trusted have betrayed you. You may as well do the same to them.”

“I’m nae that kind of man. I have my honor left. Not like ye.” The boy was shaking, eyes welling with tears, but his voice was still strong.

“You have no honor. You attack by night and steal.”

“Ye stole our land. We steal nae more than we need to take it back.” Jack had to admire the boy’s pride.

Murdoc let go of the boy’s shoulder and swung a fist into his cheek. Jack never failed to be surprised at the small man’s strength. “This is our land now. And you have broken its laws. You are in my power now. Your pride is only going to make this more painful.” Jack half-turned away at the next shower of blows. When it was over, the boy’s lips and nose were covered in blood redder than the stripes on his tartan, and dark bruises covered half his face.

“You will tell me what I need to know.” Murdoc nodded to Jack. “Hold him, Major Dalton.” Jack gripped the boy’s bound arms, trying to ignore his struggling. When the colonel’s blows drove the boy backward into Jack, he could feel him shaking.

Finally, Murdoc stopped, a crazed look in his eyes and a thread of saliva at the corner of his lips, like a mad dog. The boy hung limp in Jack’s hands. “It appears he’ll be of no further help at the moment. Give him some time in the cells. That may change his mind.”

Jack had to practically carry the boy to the holding cells. Despite his height, he was thin. Jack thought his water and mud-soaked kilt and plaid weighed as much as the boy himself.

He hated to leave the wounded, unconscious man in one of the cold, damp cells, but orders were orders. When he set the boy down, as gently as he could, he heard a small groan. The boy began to struggle weakly, pushing Jack’s hands away. He let go and watched him curl into the corner of the cell. _Damnit. He’s only a boy. He doesn’t deserve this._

Jack dreaded every second of the afternoon. He could barely eat the lunch Rebecca had prepared, and he nearly brought up everything he’d managed to swallow when she asked about the boy.

His fears were only too well founded. Murdoc called him back for another ‘interview’. This time, he wasn’t content with bruises. One of the thin knives from his desk left dozens of shallow but painful wounds on the boy’s chest, arms, and back. This time, though, he was awake when Jack took him back to the cell.

He couldn’t keep watching this, day after day, until the boy broke or Murdoc caught the Jacobites. “He’ll only make this a slow death. You should give him what he wants.”

The boy smiled as much as he could with his bruised and swollen face. “It is true. None of ye English have any honor.”

“Your honor is going to bring you a lot of pain.” Jack left the boy a pail of water this time. When he left him, the boy was already tearing strips from his tartan to clean and bandage the cuts. _Resourceful._

The next morning Jack relieved the jail guard early. He wanted to talk to the boy again. He wasn’t optimistic about his chances, but he’d try a gentler approach and see if the boy responded more favorably to that. _Although I was holding him yesterday so the colonel could beat him bloody and turn him into mincemeat. I don’t think he’ll be particularly willing to trust me._ If Murdoc had just let him handle this from the beginning…

The boy was leaning against the back of his cell, holding himself rigid, probably trying not to jar his wounds.

“How are you feeling?”

“I didnae think ye would be interested.”

“I’m not the colonel.”

“Ye are one of his men. Ye follow his orders. Ye might as well be him.” Jack shook his head. The boy was right. He decided to try being more direct. There was a feverish brightness in the boy’s eyes. People tended to say things they didn’t mean to when they were sick. Rebecca had called him ‘father’ for the first time when she was delirious with a fever.

“What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell ye nothing.”

“I already know from the tartan you’re a MacGyver.” Jack had had few dealings with the clan, but they were from much further north and generally didn’t come down into this part of the country. The only place he’d ever seen them had been in the larger cities, come down for trade. No wonder the boy was so strongly steeped in the Gaelic language and traditions. The north was still strongly independent. Maybe he’d decided fighting for the right to that freedom was worth coming down here for.

“Ye’ll learn nothing from me.” Jack sighed and walked away. Today was going to be painful.

Murdoc ordered Jack to bring the boy to the yard rather than his office. Jack knew already what that meant. He wanted to be sick when he tied the boy’s hands to the post in the middle of the yard. Everyone was watching. From the highest ranking officers to the cooks, no one was allowed to miss a whipping. Murdoc liked showing people what could happen to those who defied him.

The colonel himself was administering the punishment. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, he carried a knotted ‘cat’ whip, and cracked the leather sharply in the air, then laughed when the boy flinched, expecting pain.

“Tell me where the Jacobites are, and this is as far as I will go.”

“Never.”

The whip hissed and cracked again, and there was a choked cry. Jack shuddered. Rebecca gasped and flinched, and Jack thought of the marks on her back, the raised scars from years of cruelty.

“You need not suffer this. Tell me where the traitors are.”

The boy didn’t speak, only shook his head. The whip cracked again. After the fifth strike, Murdoc stopped asking the boy to say anything. After the tenth strike, Rebecca pushed her way out of the crowd, choking. After the twelfth, Murdoc was panting. After the twentieth, there was blood on his face. And at the forty-eighth, the boy’s back was so raw the blood was splashing freely. And some of it fell on Jack’s face. He didn’t look at the boy’s face when he took him back to the cell again. He couldn’t. _How did I stand there and watch that monster do this?_

Jack requested to see the things Murdoc had taken when he captured the boy. There might be something there that would help. His jacket, torn and muddy, was no good, and neither were his shoes or the small knife that had been kept in them. But the leather _sporran,_ the small pocket that the Highlanders wore over their kilts, held a handful of letters along with a second small knife, a heavy brass key, and a delicate brooch. Jack perused the letters, then returned to the holding cells.

“Angus?” The boy looked up almost mechanically, then frowned.

“How did ye...”

“The letters in your _sporran_. I may not read much Gaelic, but I saw they were all written to _mo cridhe Angus_. Who’s your sweetheart? She only ever signed them with a flower.”

“You _sassenachs_ think ye should know everythin' about us. Ye try to see every bit o' our lives.” The boy…Angus, and Jack always thought it was an odd name, but it suited somehow…glared at him.

“I want to help you.”

“Ye want to help your colonel kill me.”

“I am sorry.” Jack truly was. Those letters…they hadn’t been written to an enemy soldier. They had been written to a boy with dreams and hopes and a sweetheart at home. Jack could only think of Sarah. “What can I do?”

“Bring me my _sgian-dubh_.” When he saw Jack’s confusion, he muttered, “Knife. The small one from my stocking.” Jack flinched, ever so slightly. He wondered if Angus was planning on ending this fight on his own terms, by slitting his own throat. But he couldn’t refuse the pleading in those pained eyes. “Murdoc took it when he took my shoes. It’s in his office.”

Jack nodded. Murdoc liked taking trophies from his victories. He kept knives, a claymore or two, sometimes a scrap of tartan. Jack thought it was sickening. Especially since he liked to use the weapons on their owners. He wondered if the stab wound in the boy’s shoulder was from his own knife.

“Ye’ll have nothin' to do with my escape. I’ll get myself free.”

“You are going to escape this fort with your boot knife?”

“Ye do not know me, _Sassenach._ ”

Jack shook his head, but at the next interrogation he slipped the black-handled knife from the desk to his pocket, and then into Angus’s hand when he left him in the cell.

The next morning, Jack woke to a commotion. He couldn’t help the small smile when a half-dressed lieutenant knocked on his door to order him to join the search for the missing prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be a one shot but, thanks to the encouragement of some awesome reviewers (I had no idea this story would get the love it did, I really just wrote it to get the idea out of my head) I'm going to make it a full story! Thanks to all who reviewed and gave kudos. I love you guys. Seriously.  
> Comments are welcome. If I really messed something up in terminology, please let me know! I appreciate any and all constructive criticism.


	2. Moss+Tartan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So due to you lovely reviewers who asked for it, here is more of the story! You all are the best.   
> As I move forward, each chapter will be from a different character's POV and I will have that marked here in the notes. This one is a MacGyver POV, just after his escape.

A falcon screeched high in the clear morning air, and from a tangle of dew-covered thistles and soaked grass, Angus watched it wheel and plunge, going after some small creature rustling through the moor that only it could see.

He felt like that hunted thing, huddling here shivering and bleeding in the weeds, barely breathing. If he moved, he was more easily seen. Besides, any movement at all seemed like a bad idea now. His back felt like it was on fire, and some of the slashes on his arms and chest were oozing, a thick yellow-green color that turned his stomach. Three days in the fort cell hadn’t been good for open wounds.

If he was injured in a fight, he could use the things the wilds around him had to offer to make sure he survived. He’d always felt that the land was a friend of the people who knew it. He and his fellow Scots respected it, knew how to live in its rhythms and used what it had to offer. It fought for them; sometimes literally. Angus had lost track of the times he’d made sure he and the men riding with him could get away from the British soldiers by using the plants, rivers, and rocks he had known since he was a child. Locked away in that cell, he’d been cut off from the resources he’d had all his life, and now, even though he was sick and bleeding, he felt more alive, surrounded by the things he knew.

If he could get to the forest, he could find everything he needed there to stop the bleeding and give himself enough time to get to a friendly shelter. If anything still was. He’d trusted the Kirkes and they’d turned on him for the reward. People were less trustworthy this close to the border. He couldn’t say he blamed them though. The British, had they found him hiding, would have been merciless. Kirke had only been protecting his family.

It didn’t make this hurt any less. His back felt like the whip was being slashed across it again every time he moved, and flies were attracted to the blood, buzzing around him as if he were a deer carcass left to rot on the moor. He was hungry and thirsty and even though the morning air was chilly he was burning with fever. He couldn’t stay here, or he would die.

He had to move slowly, and every inch tore at his ripped and ruined back. He dug his hands into the ground, clenching fists around moss and heather, to keep from screaming. The meadow between him and the forest seemed endless. Finally, his hands brushed dead leaves and branches instead of grass and heather. He dragged himself well into the cover of the trees before attempting to stand.

His legs shook and his back burned and ached, but he finally was upright, even though he felt like he might fall over any second and the large tree trunk next to him was holding him up more than his legs were.

He dug his knife into the bark of one of the pines, spreading the sap over the bleeding cuts he could reach. He wished he could cover his back, but there was nothing he could do about that. He could find moss, which when placed over the wounds and wrapped over with strips of his ragged, filthy plaid at least kept away the biting flies and made the pain more bearable. He might regret putting the grimy plants against the raw wounds later, but if he didn’t do something to make walking bearable, he’d be caught by the British and killed for certain. Better a possible infection later than a hanging now. At least this was on his own terms. He’d rather die a free man.

He wondered how he’d come to this, weighing the best way to die. He’d never been much of a fighting man. When the Jacobites came to the village his family had lived in, he’d never gone to their meetings, never joined in with the shouting, angry farmers who all wanted to follow the Jacobites south into glorious battle. Angus hated the idea of killing anyone.

But he hated the idea of his homeland being overrun, homes and farms destroyed, and families driven to poverty or slaughtered even more. When he’d heard what the British soldiers were doing to the Scottish families, what happened to women and children at their hands, he’d decided it was a cause worth going to war for.

He still didn’t kill; the only ‘weapons’ he ever carried were the small knives he kept in his boot and _sporran_. He preferred to use what the land provided. The British were unimaginative. They had their guns and endless supplies of ammunition, which most people thought gave them an advantage, but they relied too heavily on those weapons and they didn’t know the land.

He’d fooled them time and time again, setting up snares along the roads (those idiots marched around in their red coats like being a member of the military made them untouchable), losing pursuit in the bog lands by leaving false tracks that led straight to sinkholes, and setting up rockslides or falling heaps of logs that would cover a road when a horse walked through a thin string of yarn, among other things. He’d even once managed to make a whole regiment turn tail and run by setting a fire and filling it with pinecones and river rocks. When the sap crackled and the damp rocks split, the soldiers had assumed they were walking into an ambush. The Jacobites he rode with called it magic and said Angus must be some guardian spirit of Scotland sent to help in the country’s hour of need. Time and again, they’d watched him make the land around him do exactly what he asked of it. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times.

He wrapped what remained of his plaid around his shoulders, feeling like a winter wind was cutting through him. The sun was high and the spring air was pleasant, but he felt bone chilled, like the winter he tried to pull Robbie MacDougal out of a frozen lake and fell in after him. Little Robbie was a man now, one of the Jacobite riders who’d come south with Angus, eager for a scrap with the British. He wondered if the rest had gotten away. They should have; he was the only one who’d been injured, when his horse spooked at the explosion he made with gunpowder and a rock pile and threw him on the ground. They’d trusted Kirke to hide him, thinking he just needed a few days to recover and somewhere to hide while his cracked ribs and out-of-socket shoulder healed enough to travel on.

If he had honey…he’d always used that for the cuts and scrapes he got growing up. But he didn’t hear any bees, and he didn’t have the strength to waste going and looking for them. The forest was low and wet enough that there was bog myrtle growing, which would at least keep away the flies that were seeking out the blood and sweat.

He needed to find help or he wouldn’t make it home alive. He was too sick, too weak to take care of wounds this severe. The last time he trusted someone, they turned him in to the British. But he had no choice.


	3. Horse+Branch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Jack's POV.  
> I honestly cannot believe how quickly I'm writing this. Doesn't hurt that it's hotter than the hinges of Hades where I live right now and I'm trapped indoors :)  
> Thank you to all of you who've commented and left kudos! You guys are the reason I keep writing. I love to see that people are happy and enjoying my work.

Jack halted the black mare for the tenth time, climbing down and pretending to inspect the sodden ground for tracks. He’d taken the search party he was leading in the direction he expected Angus to go. The boy was from the upper Highlands; he’d probably want to get as close to home as he could, so he was checking the north side of the fort. He was hoping to stall the search as much as he could and give Angus enough time to get away. He still didn’t know how the boy had managed to escape the cell, the jailhouse, and the fort itself with only his knife. And apparently some of the supply crates stacked against the south wall, and part of a horse harness that had been hung over a cart outside the stable. He had to admire the boy’s inventive skill.

Jack wasn’t sure he could have ever thought of how to put the random contents of the fort together into a way to escape. He’d just have gone looking for rope, and probably gotten caught. He guessed they were all fortunate the boy hadn’t decided to sabotage them further by causing an explosion. He honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if Angus could make something destructive enough to blow up the whole fort out of straw, a barrel of ale, and a teakettle.

He wondered if the boy was the reason the regiment kept having problems catching the Jacobites. They always seemed to lose their pursuers in ways that bordered on magic, if Jack believed in that kind of thing. Once a bridge had flooded out in between the Jacobites’ crossing it and the regiment coming up to it. Another time they’d followed tracks that suddenly vanished into nothingness and left them almost hopelessly lost in a dead-end valley.

He’d like to have someone that skilled helping him rather than on the other side of a war, but since they certainly weren’t going to be able to convince Angus to turn his back on his own country, Jack wanted to at least give the boy a fighting chance. He was finding himself looking forward to matching wits with the boy now that he knew who was setting these traps.

He’d fed Colonel Murdoc some story about being able to read enough from the letters from the _sporran_ that he’d found out the boy had some lover in a town west of Fort Douglass. Murdoc had no reason not to believe him, and he and his men had ridden there hell-bent on bringing the boy back. Jack hoped he wouldn’t turn the town inside out; he’d told them the girl lived well outside of it, in a place he knew was uninhabited.

Thankfully, Murdoc had done just what Jack expected and taken his most brutal, determined men with him. Jack had been able to take the ones he knew wouldn’t be overly eager to see the Highlander brought back and tortured again. Most of Jack’s men, the ones he preferred to ride with, were respectful of the Scots even when they were fighting them. Jack had the feeling each one of them was able to see himself in the men on the other side and imagine that it was their land invaded, them fighting to preserve their way of life and culture and family.

He was about to get back on the horse and ride on when he saw exactly what he’d been pretending to see each time. Part of a footprint, and a smear of blood. He was about to ignore it and wheel the men in another direction when Private Colton, one of the newer recruits, who had hunted down escaped prisoners before joining the army, shouted. Jack inwardly groaned. He liked Colton, insofar as he knew the man, but he was one of the more short-tempered of the group, and more genuinely dedicated to the cause. He hadn’t been here in the Highlands long enough to understand the people the way the others did. And he’d been well known as an experienced tracker in his old profession.

“Major! There’s blood over here.” The young man slid off his horse and began to inspect the ground. “Footprints as well. Very uneven, I’d wager he was limping quite heavily. Shouldn’t be too hard to run him down. Our horses are fresh and he can’t be moving quickly.” Colton swung back on his mount with practiced grace and spurred the horse.

“Private, halt.” Jack ordered, and the man wheeled his horse, a confused expression on his face.

“Sir, what is it?”

“We would be best advised to proceed with caution. This man has already proven he is capable of doing the unexpected. We have no certainty that he will not have laid a trap for us. I believe him to be the reason our men cannot track down the whereabouts of the Jacobite raiders.”

“All the more reason it’s necessary to capture him immediately, sir,” Colton says.

“Of course. Lead the way, Private, but be cautious.” It was as much honesty as an attempt to slow the search. As far as Jack knew, the boy had only the clothes he’d been captured in and the knife Jack had given him, but who knew what Angus was capable of doing with just that?

By the time they reached the forest, Jack’s nerves were raw. The blood trail had led them to a thicket of thistles, where there was a hollow space like a deer had lain there, and the blood had pooled there in the grass. Beyond that, there was a ragged, crushed path where the blood was smeared over leaves and grass, leading into the forest. It reminded Jack sickeningly of the path of a deer hunt. He’d always been fond of hunting, but he was sure he’d never want to do it again.

When they reached the forest, Jack ordered the men to spread out. He himself stayed with Colton. The rest of the men, he was fairly sure, would leave the boy alone if they found him. Colton wouldn’t. And he hadn’t let up with that stony determination.

They rode in silence, following a trail that was no longer bloody-Jack wondered what Angus had done to patch up those wounds. Then Colton reined in his horse.

“Look there, sir.” There was a broken branch and some crushed grass leading over a ridge down to a valley. Jack felt a small smile tug at his mouth. Angus was too smart to leave a trail like that now. He was leading them on.

“Private, why don’t you go on ahead. I think you’ve earned the right to bring this prisoner in yourself. Might even be a promotion in it for you. Murdoc’s keen to have this one back.”

“Yes sir!” Colton saluted and then cantered his horse over the ridge. Jack felt badly about playing on the boy’s inexperience and enthusiasm, but he’d feel worse handing Angus back over to Murdoc. The colonel would be furious the boy had escaped, and he’d make the rest of his life even more hellish.

Jack rode on in the same direction the earlier path had taken. When he saw a swirl of birds rise out of a tree too far ahead of him to be roused by his movements, he urged the mare on.

He didn’t see the branch snapping across the path until it swept him out of the saddle. The next thing Jack knew, after a faceful of leaves, was an painful aching bruise from his back to his seat, a pounding headache, and a wonderful view of the leaves and squirrels overhead. And, he realized dimly, there was a lot of unintelligible muttering.

He sat up slowly, shaking his head and rubbing the knot on the back of it. Ahead of him, his mare was prancing and snorting, and Angus was holding her by the reins, whispering something soothing Jack couldn’t understand but that sounded like it might be a Gaelic lullaby.

When the boy tried to put a foot in the stirrup, the mare shied again. Angus fell with a strained cry, and lay shuddering, panting and making choked gasps of pain. Jack struggled to his feet, groaning, and walked over to Angus.

“Looks like you could use a bit of help.” Angus flinched and then stared at him.

“Ye and your sort of help I can do without.”

“I helped you escape, didn’t I?”

“And now ye’re huntin’ me like a wounded _fèidh_.” Angus tried to roll to his feet and whimpered. Jack could see that his back was wrapped in strips of his tartan, and what looked like moss below them.

“I’m trying to save you. If I wasn’t here, it would be Colonel Murdoc.” Jack extended his hand. “Take the mare. You’ve earned her. And I’m a right fool for walking right into your trap. After I warned every one of my men about you too.”

Angus smiled faintly. “Ye’re nae the first.” He took Jack’s hand and stood, gasping. Jack studied the boy’s face. He was red-cheeked and pale at the same time, and despite the sweat drenching his bandages and kilt, he was shivering like it was midwinter and he was walking naked in the snow. He needed plenty more help than just a horse, but Jack could do nothing. He wasn’t a doctor by any means, and Angus knew a good deal more about traditional Highland cures than Jack could ever hope to.

“Take the mare, go where you’re needing to. She may be giving you a bit of trouble now, but she knows good people. She’ll take a liking to you.” Jack soothed the mare and then helped Angus into the saddle. “She’s a Highland horse anyway, she’ll be glad to be going home.” He rubbed her neck one last time. “I’ll miss you, lass.” He’d always called her by the Scottish term, it had felt more right. “Take good care of him for me, you hear?” The mare snuffled and flicked her ears, and then Angus collected the reins and nudged her with his heels. Jack waited until they disappeared beyond the trees, then began walking back, limping as the full pain of the bruise made itself known. _Won’t be able to sit for a month. Damn, but he’s too good at what he does._

He was just approaching the place where he and Colton had found the cracked branch when the private himself appeared, furious and nearly galloping his horse back up the trail.

“It was a trap, sir!” Colton and his horse were wet and dripping. “That path led me over a washed-out riverbank and nearly drowned me!” He was shaking with anger and frustration. Jack guessed that had been quite the blow for someone used to running down anyone he was after. Although he guessed, among all the city criminals Colton had captured over the years, he’d never run across one as resourceful as Angus MacGyver.

“So I see. No blame on you, Private, I met up with one of his traps myself. Knocked me off my horse and he took her before I was back on my feet.”

Colton dismounted. “And mine’s damn near run and swum to death.” He fell into step with Jack. “Colonel Murdoc will be furious.”

“It was my fault, I will take responsibility.” As much as he wanted Colton to learn how to work with the Highlanders rather than against them, he didn’t want the young man to suffer for Jack’s choice. And to be truly honest, Jack didn’t care what happened as a result. Even a court-martial would be worth saving Angus’s life.


	4. Whiskey+Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a Riley/Rebecca POV...

Rebecca slammed the grimy shirt against the rocks next to the small stream flowing behind the fort. It felt good to have something she couldn’t hurt to vent the frustration and tension of the last few days on.

Jack had been anxious and moody, and it had a lot more to do with his worry over the safety of the escaped Highlander than the severe reprimand he’d gotten from the colonel. He’d told Rebecca everything about the search, how he’d found the boy, and that he’d given him the horse. But she knew he felt like he hadn’t done enough.

“He looked like he was a dead man walking, Rebecca,” Jack had told her over supper, and she’d seen the concern lining his face. “Sick as a dog and shaking. I don’t know how much farther he could get himself on his own. He could barely even stand.”

“Jack, you did all you could for him.” Rebecca had tried over and over to reassure him that there had been nothing more he could possibly have done. The boy, Angus, would just have to find a way to survive.

But hearing Jack’s description made her cringe. She’d been fortunate to avoid ever having a whipping where the wounds became infected, but she’d seen some of the people she was sold at auction with who had been terribly ill. The auction house owners had done what they could, because a sick slave was worth much less than a healthy-looking one, but she had watched two boys and a woman die from their injuries before the sale that sent her to the general’s house.

She herself had been whipped three times, for being insolent and speaking out of turn to the general. She knew the pain that came with it, and even more, she knew what it was like to try to ignore that pain and do her daily tasks.

When Jack’s horse had come back to the stable this morning, covered in burs and mud and with blood staining her saddle, Jack had turned pale as the shirt in Rebecca’s hands. He’d walked into the house and sat down at his desk and then driven his pen all the way through his blotter and slammed a fist down so hard he sent papers flying in all directions.

She’d been almost afraid to go near him. Even after all this time, she still feared the violence of angry men. Even though she knew Jack would never hurt her, there was a part of her that would never see Jack, only someone whose anger could find a release by hurting her.

“Jack?”

“He’s dead, and it’s my fault. I should have done more. I should have helped him get away sooner.” Jack’s voice had a tear-choked sound she’d only heard a few times before. This was the first time it wasn’t because of her.

She’d tried to come up with alternatives to the thoughts running through Jack’s mind. She knew the reality was likely exactly what he was envisioning, Angus, his wounds reopened and bleeding out, too sick and too weak to ride further, falling from the horse and dying delirious and alone on the moor. But she didn’t want to believe it any more than Jack did. The Highlander had deserved better.

“Jack, if Murdoc or one of the soldiers shot him you’d have heard. It’s possible he knew your horse would be easy for the soldiers to recognize. Maybe he found another horse and let her go so he wouldn’t be caught.” But she had the feeling Jack had heard nothing she said. He’d left the fort over an hour ago, on foot. He had a place he liked to sit along the river and draw the birds he saw, and she hoped that was where he’d gone. Jack was so worried about that boy he was going to kill himself with the fretting.

She was so busy beating the stubborn stains out of Jack’s coat, likely the one he’d worn on that search, since the back was stained with streaks of grass and mud, when Morag, one of the washerwomen who tended to the enlisted men’s laundry, shook her sleeve.

“I need your help,” the woman whispered. “My wee laddie got hisself in trouble with some o’ the soldiers, and they didna take it kindly.”

Rebecca was well-known in both Fort Douglass and the small towns around it for her gentleness with anything wounded, from a sparrow to a soldier. She was brash and opinionated and fierce, but when faced with pain, she always felt pity. She’d felt so much hurt in her life, and seen so much more, and she wanted as little of it to remain as she could manage. The village children had a habit of bringing her small birds, dogs with broken legs, and kittens with crusted eyes. She had a young lark that had fallen from a nest resting in a box with one of Jack’s old handkerchiefs on her windowsill now.

“I’ll do what I can, but I know nothing of the healing ways. I’ve asked Annis to teach me but she knows much more than I ever will.” Rebecca shook out the coat and studied it. Jack was forever coming home with missing buttons and torn sleeves. She didn’t mind mending those. It was the claymore slices and bullet holes she was afraid of seeing. Fortunately, those had come few and far between.

“Aye, but ye ken somethin’ of what to do when they use a whip.” Rebecca froze, knuckles going white around the fabric of the coat. The wash women all knew about her past. They’d seen the scars on her arms when she rolled up her sleeves, and she’d told them the rest.

She wondered which of the soldiers had done this. Murdoc preferred to make his punishments public, like he had with the Highlander; he would have held the whipping in the fort. She hadn’t known there was another man in the fort as cruel as the colonel, but perhaps he was training a successor. Jack was meant to be the replacement when-or if-Murdoc ever left, but it was clear that the colonel disagreed with Jack’s tactics and willingness to compromise.

“I’ll come.” She finished hastily with the coat and bundled everything into a basket, handing it to Geillis, the newest washerwoman, a strapping redheaded girl who was likely only twelve but already as tall as Rebecca. “Please hang these for me, I have an urgent matter that’s come up.” Geillis nodded.

Rebecca gathered an old shirt and sheet from the mending bag, a cupful of salt, and a small jar of the ointment Annis had given her to use on horses’ legs when they were cut by thistles. She was forever helping Will at the barn, and the horses had gotten to know her. Will came for her anytime one was injured or ill. She’d ask him to saddle her a horse to visit Morag. She would like to be home before Jack arrived, because if she was gone he would fret even more, but she left him a note to be certain if he came back he wouldn’t worry.

“And where would you be going with all those things, Rebecca?” Will asked when she met him at the forge, where he was shoeing a newly purchased colt.

“Morag. Her son was injured by soldiers.” She kicked one bare foot against the ground, judging whether to tell the rest. “He was whipped.”

Will sighed and set down his hammer. “They’ll never be content without hurting someone powerless, will they?” He rested his scarred, calloused hands on her shoulders. “If it’s too difficult for you, come down to the stables. You can braid Raven’s tail and tell me everything.”

“You spoil that horse, you do.” Raven was Will’s name for Jack’s black mare. Jack had insisted that naming animals was foolish and only made you attached to something that couldn’t even talk to you, but Rebecca had more than once heard him calling the mare ‘lass’ or ‘lassie’. He might show his affection gruffly, but no one could say Jack Dalton didn’t have a genuinely caring heart.

“I mean that. I saw you in the yard the day Murdoc…” he stopped, shuddering. Will had been a free man since birth, but he’d seen what happened over and over to the people who could have been his brothers or sisters. Rebecca knew how much guilt he felt that he’d been spared. He had told her once that if he could, he would take her place to take all her pain away. That had been the moment she realized she loved him.

“The colonel is a monster.” Her worry for the Highlander came flooding back. She couldn’t stop seeing him alone on the moor, his boyish face twisted with pain, burning with fever, begging for water or help or even death, with no one to hear him cry. She couldn’t help him, but she could help save Morag’s son. “And now there are others. I don't know who it was but the soldier who beat Morag’s son is from the fort. And not the colonel.”

Will gripped her hand, then let go. “I’ll get you a horse.” He returned leading an old brown mare who was reliable and patient. Rebecca mounted, struggling with her skirts. When she was younger, she’d worn men’s trousers, and she far preferred riding in them. However, the older she got, the more lewd stares she got from the soldiers, and the more crude words were tossed her way. She wanted to be herself, unafraid of what any man thought, but the cold truth was that what they thought could get her hurt someday. As much as Jack wanted to, he couldn’t be with her all the time, and these men could be dangerous. Jack had said Angus carried a knife in his boot. Rebecca thought that was a good idea. She might be able to convince Jack it was necessary.

She knew exactly where Morag Duncan’s house was. North of the fort instead of east by Dunkeld, hidden up in a rocky outcropping over the moor. Morag’s husband had been disliked by the town, thought to be possessed by a demon because of his strange melancholy that could turn to a violent rage. The family had settled well away from those who might want to condemn him. The man had died before Rebecca even came to the fort, but she had heard the town children tell stories of his ghost haunting the winter winds.

Morag herself was an ordinary-looking woman, hair gone prematurely grey from worry, with three sons and a daughter. She met Rebecca at the door of her hut, hands bloody and hair awry. Her daughter was with her, face pale.

“He’s started seein’ things that cannae be real. He’s in a bad way. I’m feared he’s already too far down Death’s road.”

“Let me see.” Rebecca wiped the clamminess off her hands and slid off her horse.

Inside, the house was dim and smelled of death and rot. Rebecca held a hand to her mouth, trying not to breathe in the stench. There was someone lying on the bed in the back, facedown. She could just see the raw gashes spreading over the man’s back and ribs.

“I’ll need light.” Morag lit a smoke-dimmed lantern and placed it on a table next to the bed. Rebecca knelt down next to the injured boy, wondering which of the sons it was. It couldn’t be Dougal, the eldest, he was in another village selling Morag’s wool cloth. He’d left last week. It might be Colum or Jamie, both of them were temperamental and hot-headed. She could imagine either one getting into a fight with a soldier.

But the boy on the bed didn’t have Morag’s family’s inky black hair. His was filthy and dark with sweat, but it was a tawny blond or tan. Morag had lied about who he was, but why? Just then, the boy gasped and lurched, rolling half over, and Rebecca could see his face clearly enough in the lamplight.

The Highlander. Rebecca shook her head, thoughts skittering like mice in the heather. He’d made it to Morag’s hut and probably knew he could get no further. And he was sick, maybe dying. The woman had been right, Rebecca had plenty of experience with the wrong end of a whip. And she knew how bad it could be if the wounds were left to fester.

Angus’s skin was clammy with fever, thin fingers twitching restlessly, dirty blond hair sticking to his face and neck with sweat. He was whispering something under his breath, but Rebecca couldn’t make out what it was. It had to be Gaelic.

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s askin’ for whiskey,” Morag said. “I’ve already given him a wee bit, it seemed to help with the pain. But he keeps askin’.”

The muttered words changed. Rebecca leaned a bit closer, trying not to gag on the rancid smell of infection. “It sounds a bit like “glan”?”

“He’s been sayin’ that too. But I dinna ken what he’s meanin’ by sayin’ it.”

“What does it mean?”

“Clean.” Rebecca frowned, letting her mind wander through the possibilities. Then she remembered something Jack had said about treating his own injury once when he was shot in a skirmish.

_“If I hadn’t bought a bottle of that good whiskey from the last town we’d passed through, I don’t know what would have happened. It cleaned the wound out well enough the surgeon was impressed, but I was awfully sorry to part with that good of a drink.”_

“I’m going to need the rest of what whiskey you have to clean his wounds.” She laid out her rags and started tearing the sheet into strips, then handed that job over to the daughter, Annag. “I need you to tear this up just the way I have been. All of it.” She was going to need every bandage she could get. Angus’s back looked as raw as a butchered deer. “I need water that’s been heated as well.”

She tore a sleeve off the shirt and rolled it tightly, then dipped it in a mug of the whiskey and slipped it between the boy’s teeth. He seemed to be a bit aware of her, even though his blue eyes were clouded with pain and fever.

“I have to do this or you’ll break your own teeth.” He nodded slightly. “I’m Rebecca, Angus.” He looked startled that she knew his name, and she wondered if it had been wrong to tell him. “I’m Jack’s daughter. Major Jack Dalton, from the fort.” She couldn’t tell if he understood or not. A pained whimper slipped past the rag. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing how badly this would hurt. “But I need to do this.”

Morag brought a bowl of water. Rebecca poured in a handful of the salt, mixing until the grains at the bottom were gone. This was what old Missy at the general’s house had always done for her. It hurt like hellfire but she’d never gotten infected. She dipped a rag in the salt water and ran it over Angus’s back, and the reaction was instant. He arched away from her hands, and even with the rag in his mouth his scream was heartrending. Rebecca blinked a few tears away. “I need you to hold him still. I can’t clean his back if he’s trying to stay away from me.” Morag nodded, and put her strong chapped hands on the boy’s shoulders. Rebecca dipped the cloth again and continued. This time, the scream cut off abruptly, and only a few sobbing whimpers followed. She wished she had laudanum to deaden the pain, but that was kept under lock and key in the surgeon’s office of the fort. Even if she had thought of it then, she couldn’t have brought any.

Rebecca started talking, anything to distract herself from the sounds and smells. She couldn’t afford to be sick; Angus needed her help. “Why did you tell me it was your son who was hurt?”

“I didna think you would come if ye kenned the truth.”

“I promise I’ll say nothing. I know who he is, but I’ll keep your secret.” Morag nodded.

“I thought I could trust ye. Ye’re a good lass with a good heart.”

“How did he get here?”

“He didna. I found him lyin’ on the moor as I was comin’ to do the washin’. I knew I’d be awful late but I couldnae leave him there bleedin’ and cryin’. I brought him in and come to find ye because I thought ye would ken what to do for him.” Rebecca felt even sicker. If Morag hadn’t seen him, he would have died just like she’d been afraid of. Angus shuddered, and Morag flinched. “He’s a sturdy one, aye, but he’s terrible sick now.”

“Do you know him?” Rebecca poured out the water, now dark with blood and other things she didn’t want to think about, and poured a new bowl from the kettle on the hearth, adding more salt.

“When he come ridin’ through with some others last autumn, he fixed our horse-cart. The men all stayed the night in the barn, and the cart was there wi’ its wheel broke off. When they left in the mornin’ it was repaired good as ever, and Dougal said he’d seen this laddie workin’ on it when he went to milk the cow.” Rebecca pressed the rag against a swollen spot, and Angus yelped and then fell silent, going limp under Morag’s hands. For a moment Rebecca feared he was dead, but then she heard a few shallow, rasping breaths. Maybe it was better he wasn’t awake for this.

She finished cleaning his back and moved on to his arms, which were sticky with what felt oddly like tree sap. Most of those wounds had begun to close on their own, although a few deeper ones were swollen and oozing. She did her best not to think about what she was doing, pretending this wasn’t a living person in terrible pain, someone who’d been treated cruelly by the people she lived every day with. He seemed barely older than she was, and here he was fighting in a war. A war that she and Jack were on exactly the other side of.

When she was done, she pulled out the whiskey and hoped she was doing the right thing. _Was that really how Jack told that story? Was it true? Did we misunderstand what Angus was saying? Did he even know what he was saying? He’s delirious, feverish, maybe he wasn’t making sense._ But somehow she was fairly sure she could trust that he knew what he was talking about.

When she poured the alcohol over the wounds, Angus woke with another piercing scream of pain. Rebecca was glad this house was so far away from anything, otherwise they would have been found. She finished and then wrapped the cuts on his arms. His back she covered loosely with the rest of the old shirt, then wound bandages around it, also loose.

“You’ll need to change the cloth often, or when he heals it will stick to his back and be very painful to get off.” Her dress had done that once. “And if you can get more salt and whiskey, keep cleaning anything that is still open or swollen, especially his back.” She wanted to stay, because Angus looked so young and lonely and vulnerable lying there covered in bandages. But she had to go home and tell Jack. She squeezed his hand gently before she stood up. “I’ll come back, I promise.” She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like he was gripping hers a little more tightly too.

It had taken much longer than she thought to clean Angus’s wounds, and the sun was already setting when she left the hut and started the ride back. She left the horse with Will, only stopping long enough to tell him not to worry about the blood on her dress and that she’d tell him more in the morning. Jack must be home by now, and he would be frantic.

When she walked in the door of their house, Jack was tugging on one boot, holding her note in his teeth. “I’m all right. I’m home.” He must have been on the verge of riding out after her.  

“What were you doing riding out there alone?” She knew he was going to launch into a scolding, and that it would be ten times worse because he was fretting about the Highlander boy, but she beat him to saying anything else.

“Jack, it was Angus. I found him.”


	5. Fever+Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a Mac POV that begins a bit before the Rebecca/Riley POV of last chapter. It's filling in a few gaps from there and then moving forward.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was trapped inside a fire and he couldn’t get out, _can’t get out, I’m going to burn up alive._ He screamed but he couldn’t hear himself screaming over the roar of the flames. He was going to die.

He blinked and there was hot white light above him. But it wasn’t fire, it was sunlight. How had he gotten here? He could hear wind moving through grass and heather. There was a faint drumming. No, hoofbeats. Why was there a horse? The memories were sliding away like trout in a river.

He was so cold. He shouldn’t be cold. He should be burning up. There was fire…no, there was no fire. It was his back that was burning. But he was so cold, so cold. He shivered and wrapped the shredded remains of his plaid around him. He couldn’t stop shaking, and shaking hurt so badly he was sick. Not that he had eaten anything in the last few days to throw up.

He was going to die here, alone. He didn’t want to be alone. He was always alone. When his _màthair_ died, his _athair_ Jamie had been away drinking himself into a stupor. When Jamie left him at his _seanair_ ’s estate, he’d spent hours in cold stone rooms alone with books, and more hours roaming the hills and fields, alone except for the deerhound his _seanair_ Conall kept. Even when he rode with the Jacobites, he always rode last in line, and it was his job to stay behind and set his traps. And he slept on the edges of the fire ring, and he never felt like he belonged inside their jovial, drunken group with their raucous stories and the bloodthirst in their words.

He was so hot. He was going to burn up. He had to get out of the sun, out of the heat. He wished he was at the river at Conall’s estate. He’d spent half his summers there as a boy, leaving his clothes on the bank and teaching himself to swim and fish with his hands or a sharpened pole.

He could almost hear water. Was there water nearby? He didn’t think he could move and find it if there was. But he didn’t need the water. He needed a fire. So cold. Something was swishing and rustling toward him. It was a flood, and he couldn’t get away, and he was going to drown, and he didn’t want to because the water would be cold and he was already frozen and he just wanted to get warm.

Someone was coming, he needed to hide, get away. If they found him they would kill him. He tried to move and his back was on fire. He was crying, and he tried to cover his mouth with his hand so they wouldn’t hear, but he couldn’t move his hand. And then someone was lifting him and his back hurt so terribly…

He woke up somewhere dark, and he wondered if he was dead, maybe, and then he felt cold all over and his back was on fire and _bein’ dead shouldae hurt so bad._ He was so cold. They’d taken his plaid and his bandages and his clothes and he was covered up with a blanket but it wasn’t warm enough and he was shaking. He didn’t know if he was asleep or awake, and he thought people were coming and going and sometimes there was more light. And then someone with a soft voice and rough hands pushed his sweaty hair off his face like Mam did when he was sick, and he could still remember that even though her face had faded away a long time ago, and she was singing one of her old Gaelic lullabies in a soft cracked voice. He wondered if he was home and sick and all this time had been a terrible fever dream.

Something slammed and he flinched, because Jamie slammed doors when he came home after drinking, and after Mam died he left almost every night and came home late. Angus knew better than to be awake when he came back. He needed to leave, go up to the attic rafters and curl up there and sleep until morning when Jamie was himself again. If he stayed down here he’d be hit, and he already hurt. He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t move.

And then he was awake again, and he remembered everything, and he was sick and hurt and he needed to clean his wounds. And he asked the woman to but he didn’t think his words were coming right because instead of cleaning his back and the cuts on his arms and chest she gave him a drink of whiskey. It made everything hurt less, but that wasn’t what he needed and if his head weren’t so foggy he would tell her…

He thought someone else was there, and then there was nothing but pain. His back was on fire, and he was too hot and they wouldn’t stop. He was back in the fort yard and the colonel was there and whipping him over and over and it hurt so badly he couldn’t think of anything else, and he wondered if he was screaming, because he didn’t want to give that man the satisfaction of knowing he made him cry but it hurt so much…

He was back in his house and it wasn’t him sick, it was Mam and she was crying and asking for him and he was holding her hand but she didn’t know it. And then Jamie…he still called him Da then, until the first time he hit him…stomped in, and he was twisting Angus’s arm and screaming at him. “You killed her!” He shouted, over and over, until it was all Angus could hear. “You brought the fever home to her. If it wasn’t for you she’d still be alive!” And then it wasn’t Jamie anymore, it was the colonel, and he had every one of the Jacobite riders captured inside the fort, standing on the gallows with nooses around their necks. “You killed them,” he whispered, his eyes glittering with insanity, and then they were all falling, dying…

When he woke up again he was alone, but he could hear people outside. He could hear a fire crackling, and cattle mooing, and wind in the trees, and it sounded safe. He was still too cold, but his back hurt just a bit less. He pulled the blanket as tightly around him as he could and tried to stop shivering. He wondered if these people would be like the Kirkes, and turn him in. He didn’t want to go back. But they had been kind, they’d helped him. Maybe they wouldn’t send him back to the fort and the colonel and the whip. And the end of a noose. He was no fool; he knew the colonel would want to punish him as severely as he could for his escape.

He needed to leave now, before they told the British where he was, or before soldiers came and punished the family and burned their house and killed their children for hiding him. He stumbled unsteadily to his feet. He needed his kilt and his knife, and he didn’t know what they had done with them. He tried to walk and fell to the floor, back searing with pain and too tired to move anymore. The floor was cool and he was far too hot.

When he woke up he was back on the bed, and someone was leaning over him. “You’re in no condition to be trying to go anywhere, laddie,” someone muttered, and something cold and wet was laid across his head. The voice was clearly British, fumbling over the Scottish ‘laddie’.

He’d been caught again. And now the family that helped him was going to be punished. He turned away from the voice, but the movement twisted his back and he whimpered. He started to cry silently; everything was going so wrong.

A rough hand rested itself on his shoulder. “Easy now laddie, it’s going to be alright.” The voice was punctuated with a deep chuckle. “I don’t need to turn around and find you passed out naked on the floor again.” There was a soft patter like footsteps, and he noticed something that smelled like oatmeal.  Angus blinked, glancing up, and the blurry figure in front of him turned into the major from Fort Douglass. Jack.

Jack was leaning on the bed next to him, as was someone else, a girl with dark skin and black hair as untamed as a horse’s mane. “Here, you need to eat. You’re skin and bones,” the girl said, lifting a steaming bowl and holding a spoon. “I’m Rebecca, Jack’s daughter. I told you that before but I don’t think you were hearing much of anything.” A wry smile twisted her lips. “I’m glad you’re finally awake. We’ve all been worried. I don’t think Jack’s slept in two days.”

“H-how long…how long have I been here?” Angus’s voice was rough and choked with disuse. He coughed and the movement shook his back. He winced and felt another tear run over his cheek. He tried to lift a hand to wipe it but that only made his back hurt more and brought on another trickle of tears.

“Well, it’s been three days since you fell off my horse and old Morag Duncan pulled you off the moor.” Jack reached over and brushed a calloused thumb across Angus’s cheek, wiping it dry. He smiled warmly. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. You looked like a ghost last time I saw you.”

“Feel like one.” He was tired and he just wanted to sleep. The girl…Rebecca…was still holding the spoon, but the thought of eating anything was too exhausting. “You’re not…not taking me back?”

“All I’ve done to get you out of that place and you still don’t trust me.” Jack sounded hurt, but half-joking. “No one is taking you back to Fort Douglass if I have to stop them myself, Angus.” It sounded strange hearing his name from the _Sassenach_. His accent mangled the word and made it almost unrecognizable, but the way Jack said it was friendly. Like they weren’t enemies who at one point or another over the past few months might have come close to wounding or killing each other.

“Now come on. You eat that, or Rebecca is going to force it down your stubborn Scottish throat. Trust me, you do not want her to lose patience with you, Angus. I’ve had her angry at me and it is no pleasure ride.” Angus would have laughed if he hadn’t felt so horrible. Rebecca poked the spoon at his mouth.

“He’s right. Eat.” She was smiling. “It’s just oatmeal. I won’t poison you.” He swallowed, and the watery porridge felt soothing on his throat, dry and raspy from what he guessed was the screaming he’d been doing in his dreams. The second the warm food settled in his stomach, he realized he was starving. He’d eaten half the bowl before Rebecca set it aside.

“Eat any more and I’m afraid you’ll be sick again.” She smiled. “We’ll come back, I promise. Get some rest.” She brushed a hand across his forehead before she walked away. Jack stood.

“Th-thank you.” Angus had never thought he’d say that to any _Sassenach._ But Jack and Rebecca deserved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make Mac's past match up at least partially with the canon storyline, or what I know of it. I haven't gotten all the way through season 2 yet so I don't know how that all pans out. All I know is what I've read in stories on here, and then I took some literary license. Because what else is fan fiction for?


	6. Brooch+Flint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Jack's POV of the same events as in the last chapter.

Jack wasn’t sure he had ever been so relieved as he was when Rebecca told him Angus was alive. Granted, she’d said he was delirious with fever and his wounds had been terribly infected, but she’d done what she could for him and he was at least still breathing.

He’d chafed at every second it took to ride back across the moor, after excusing his absence by saying Rebecca, on her ride, had seen possible evidence of the Jacobite raiders. It wasn’t even a technical lie. Colonel Murdoc had wanted him to take more men with him, but Jack had swallowed the bile in his throat at disparaging his daughter and said he wasn’t sure a woman’s flighty temper could be trusted to know real danger. He knew Murdoc would believe that. The man seemed to think every human being was beneath him, an ant to be crushed under his shoe.

He told Rebecca he could go alone, but she’d insisted on returning. “I promised him I would come back,” she said, but she went to her room and came back wearing a pair of Jack’s old trousers belted around her much slimmer waist. He remembered her running around their various postings in boy’s clothes as a child, insisting she wasn’t going to wear a skirt because she couldn’t climb trees and run fast in one, and he could see the playful girl still alive and well inside the young woman.

When they reached the cottage, night had fallen, and the moor was alive with chirping, buzzing, and snuffling of small creatures. Jack made sure to announce himself well before knocking at the door. He didn’t want one of the Duncan boys answering it with a musket.

Morag met them, her hair wrapped into a straggling bun and a lantern held high. “Come in,” she said, but she was glaring at Rebecca. “I’ll be thinkin’ you’ve come to take the laddie.”

“No, he’s trying to help him,” Rebecca spoke up quickly. “I trust him. He won’t turn you or Angus in, I swear.” Morag nodded and let them inside.

Angus was lying restlessly on a small pallet in the corner of the room. Morag’s daughter was sitting next to him, a bowl of water in her lap and a scrap of cloth in one hand. The boys were seated by the fire, one of them sharpening a hay sickle, the other cleaning his musket. Both looked less than pleased to see Jack, even though he’d exchanged his uniform for a plain jacket. He didn’t think it would be wise to remind Angus of what had happened at Fort Douglass any more than necessary, given Rebecca’s idea that the boy probably didn’t really know what was happening around him.

“How is he?” Jack asked, crossing the room to kneel beside Angus. He’d thought the boy looked like death when he’d given him the horse. Now he looked like a corpse. He could have been dead if not for the harsh, gasping breaths, the constant shivering, and the restless twitches that seemed to make the pain even worse judging by the expressions on his white, pinched face. He was terribly thin; above the blanket Jack could see sharp shoulder blades and collarbones. 

“He’s been no different since the lassie was here.” Morag muttered. “Not dead, not livin’. Stuck in the land in between.” She shook her head. “And tha’s a bad place to be.”

Jack took the rag and bowl from the girl, and she backed away. “He’s nae stopped askin’ for people since nightfall. His _màthair_ , other names; he doesnae know the livin’ from the dead now.”  She looked a bit frightened, and Jack thought that after the life she’d had with her father, anyone with a tenuous grip on reality was bound to make her a bit nervous.

Jack felt the boy’s cheek with the back of his hand; he’d done this often for Rebecca when she was younger. She’d had a difficult time adjusting to the cold weather of England; according to General Davis she’d been an import from his Caribbean plantation. She’d fallen ill with a raging fever every winter until Jack took the Highland postings and brought her along. Jack would swear to anyone who asked that the Scottish wilds had cured her. Now, even in the dead of winter, when buckets of water froze solid in minutes and snow buried the fort house windows, Rebecca remained healthy and strong.

Angus flinched away from his hand, crying out like Jack had hit him. Jack cringed. The last thing he wanted to do was cause the boy any more distress. But he was burning up with the fever, and they needed to keep him cool. Jack had seen men wounded in battle turn feverish like this, seeing dead relatives, sweethearts or children, and then die. He’d lost enough men that way; he wasn’t about to lose Angus as well. He dipped the rag into the bowl and laid it over the boy’s head, and while his shivering worsened, he stopped thrashing as violently.

Morag brought a fresh pail of cold spring water when the bowl Jack had turned warm. He didn’t know how long he sat there, until he realized Rebecca was shaking his shoulder and that he’d fallen asleep with his hand still in the water pail.

“Let me. Get some rest.” She looked half-asleep as well, but Jack had seen her stay up all night with sick children and colicky horses. He handed over his vigil and sat with his back against the wall. When he woke up, the sun was coming in the open door and his neck and back (that bruise was still aching) were terribly stiff. Rebecca was leaning over Angus, and it didn’t take a doctor to know his fever hadn’t broken.

“You have to go back,” she said. “I’ll stay and watch over him. Tell them…tell them I’m staying behind to nurse a sick child as payment for us spending the night somewhere. Or whatever the colonel will believe.” Jack didn’t want to leave, but he had to admit she was right. She wouldn’t be missed at the fort, except by Will. Jack was not as easily dispensed with. He didn’t want to risk raising Murdoc’s ire after ‘losing’ his prisoner already. Jack needed to stay in control of this situation. If Murdoc decided he wasn’t competent, he’d take over the hunt himself, and it was more than likely he would find Angus before the boy was healed enough to travel.

Murdoc looked furious when Jack told him Rebecca’s story had been a false hope. “I have never, in all my time in the Highlands, lost a prisoner, Dalton,” the man fumed, his hands shaking where he was gripping his pen. “That traitor must not be allowed to return to his Jacobite friends. If he escaped Fort Douglass he can find his way back inside, and with his men with him. Those Highland scum would kill every last one of us if given the chance. I do not intend to let them.” And with that, he’d assigned Jack and every one of his men to a doubled guard duty. Jack would not be relieved from his post until midnight.

He paced the walls, worrying about Angus and Rebecca. She had yet to return to the fort, which he hoped meant the boy was still holding on. But he had never felt so helpless to protect either of them. Murdoc had sent more patrols; there wasn’t a man in the fort not somehow involved in this search. If anyone found Rebecca and Angus, it was all over.

When night began to fall, Jack was sent by a fresh guard to take post near the gate. He leaned against the wall, feeling the last of the sun-baked heat leaching out of the stone, and pulled a small leather bag from his coat.

Jack had taken Angus’s _sporran_ on the pretense that he wanted to see if anything inside it might tell him more about where the boy was. Murdoc had seemed confused, probably because Jack had already been through the Highlander’s belongings once and found nothing except the useless information he’d told Murdoc about the lover mentioned in the letters. Murdoc was unaware it was a lie, but he seemed confused as to what more Jack could possibly learn. He had handed over the small satchel without a fuss, however.

Now, for lack of something better to do, Jack found himself pulling everything out of the small bag again and sorting through it. There was the old brass key he’d seen before, maybe to the family estate or some other such building, since it was large and heavy. The small knife was nearly the same as the one he’d given back to Angus in the cell, except that this one had many small nicks in the blade and the handle was made of deerhorn, worn smooth and stained brown by hands. Jack wondered if the knife had been a gift, something the boy kept out of the sentimental value, like the letters.

Jack found himself not examining the letters too closely. He couldn’t read the cramped writing, all in Gaelic, but even if he could have those letters were between Angus and his sweetheart, whoever she was. She’d signed each letter with a small thistle, angled over a spray of heather blossoms. Jack wondered if it was part of her house crest. He couldn’t remember which family had this one; the thistle was common.

The brooch, pinned to a scrap of the boy’s family tartan, must have had his family’s crest on it. A large bird, with spread wings and a curling long tail, covered the center, and around the edges were the Latin words “ _Per mea ingenii facultate et perseverantia ego superesse_ ”.

Jack hadn’t much liked school, and he’d been forever the boy who drew the plans and maneuvers of famous battles and sieges in the pages of his books, or tore out the small biographies of people like Hannibal of Carthage, but he remembered a bit of the Latin the old schoolmaster had drilled into him and his peers with the cane, if necessary. “By my intelligence and perseverance I will survive.” It certainly seemed an appropriate motto for someone who seemed very skilled at making anything with limited resources.

In addition to those things, the only things he’d seen when first examining the _sporran_ , Jack now realized that there were several other, smaller contents he’d overlooked. Maybe it was just that now he was better able to realize that nothing Angus did or had was random.

At first glance, it had seemed that the tree bark, pine needles, bits of moss, and small stone were things that had found their way into the bag by accident, from being left on the ground or having something else shoved in. However, Jack could tell that the dried bark and moss were probably inside the leather pouch to keep them dry to use as tinder, and the stone must be a flint for striking a fire. There was a bit of deerhorn inside as well, and some small animal bones. One bone had been splintered and looked as if Angus had been in the process of making it into a needle.

He was startled by the guard who came to relieve him, and nearly pummeled the man before he was aware of what was happening. _I’m jumpier than a green colt in a pen full of snakes._ His nerves were raw and his mind was wandering. He couldn’t ride out like this, he’d likely fall asleep, fall off his horse and break his own neck.

He snatched a few hours of sleep in the barn, after explaining to Will he was going to ride out. It didn’t look like the young farrier was getting much sleep tonight either. “Rebecca is well; she’s staying on to take care of the Duncans’ boy.” He wanted to tell Will the truth. He hated Murdoc as much as Jack or Rebecca, he wouldn’t turn Angus in. But Jack didn’t want another person dragged into this mess. Rebecca had already, if accidentally, gotten involved. If things went wrong Jack wanted as few people hurt as possible. This was his problem to handle.

When he rode out, the moon was setting and the sky was just beginning to turn grey. He’d left a message with the gate guard saying he wanted to retrace the path he’d taken the first day of the search, see if he could decipher where the escaped prisoner might have gone. Murdoc would be none too happy with another absence like this. Any more and he might grow suspicious. Jack hoped he’d find Angus on the mend.

When he rode up, the house looked quiet. Morag and her family were nowhere in sight, and the cart was no longer in front of the barn. A sinking feeling filled Jack’s stomach. Maybe the soldiers had come, and the Duncans had been forced to flee. They might have needed the cart to move Angus, with his injuries. They hadn’t been caught, that much was clear, since Jack would have heard about it at the fort. But they could be anywhere now.

Then the door creaked open, and Jack tensed. Rebecca stepped out, a pail in her hand and her hair falling half over her face.  
“Jack!” She smiled. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

“Murdoc ordered extra guards. He seems to think our little runaway is going to come back with the entire Jacobite army at his heels and storm the fort.” He tied the mare to a fence rail, where she began browsing the short grass. “Where are the Duncans?”

“Gone off to shear their sheep. Said it couldn’t wait any longer, lambing’s about to begin.” Rebecca pulled the cover off the well. “Angus’s fever’s breaking. I’m cooking some oatmeal for when he wakes up. The poor lad’s nothing but bone.” Jack rubbed a hand over his aching eyes. Rebecca looked cheerful; she was even humming a Highland melody while she heaved up the water bucket. Angus was going to live. _That boy’s as tough as a damned Highland thistle._

There was a sudden thud from inside the house, and Jack glanced over. “Did you leave him alone?”

“He was asleep. And I’m taking care of the house by myself, Jack, I can’t be everywhere at once.” But Rebecca did look a bit worried.

Jack pushed the door open and walked inside. The first thing he noticed was the empty bed. The second thing was Angus, sprawled on the floor, fast asleep and naked as a newborn baby. Jack lifted the boy gently and laid him back on the bed, covering him with the blanket again. Angus stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.

“You ought to be grateful it was me that found you and not Rebecca,” Jack muttered. “That would have been a mite embarrassing for you when you wake up.” He brushed the boy’s hair off his face. It looked like Rebecca had washed it; most of the dirt and blood was gone, and even though it was still sweaty and dark, Jack could see the natural straw blond.

Angus’s eyes blinked open, and then he started moving, trying to push himself up.

“You’re in no condition to be trying to go anywhere, laddie,” Jack muttered. Rebecca had come in, and she handed him a bowl of fresh water and a rag. Angus’s skin wasn’t burning the way it had been, but he was still too warm for Jack’s liking. He wrung out the rag and placed it over the boy’s head.

Angus flinched away from the cloth and then whimpered. Jack could see his shoulders shaking with faint sobs, and tears were rolling down his thin cheeks. “Easy now laddie, it’s going to be alright.” Jack hated seeing anyone cry, especially someone like Rebecca or Angus. He felt too damned responsible for them. He tried to turn the choked feeling in his throat into a chuckle. “I don’t need to turn around and find you passed out naked on the floor again.” Rebecca, who had just come from the hearth with a bowl of oatmeal, raised an eyebrow at Jack. _He’s damned fortunate it wasn’t her that found him. She would have been merciless._

Angus blinked, his blue eyes unfocused and dull. Rebecca leaned over him with her bowl. “Here, you need to eat. You’re skin and bones. I’m Rebecca, Jack’s daughter,” she continued, trying to coax the boy into opening his mouth, as if he were a foundling bird. “I told you that before but I don’t think you were hearing much of anything. I’m glad you’re finally awake. We’ve all been worried. I don’t think Jack,” and she glared at him, clearly focusing on the dark shadows below his eyes, “has slept in two days.”

Angus coughed. “H-how long…how long have I been here?” His deep brogue was even more thickly accented than before, and hoarse from his illness. He coughed again, then shuddered. More tears dripped down his face, and Jack reached up almost unconsciously to wipe them away.

“Well, it’s been three days since you fell off my horse and old Morag Duncan pulled you off the moor. I’m glad to see you’re still alive. You looked like a ghost last time I saw you.”

“Feel like one.” Angus shivered again. “You’re not…not taking me back?”

“All I’ve done to get you out of that place and you still don’t trust me. No one is taking you back to Fort Douglass if I have to stop them myself, Angus.” He shook his head. _Damnit. I feel responsible for him._ But he’d like the boy to at least live long enough for him to worry about. He was turning his head away from Rebecca’s insistent gestures, refusing to eat. “Now come on. You eat that, or Rebecca is going to force it down your stubborn Scottish throat. Trust me, you do not want her to lose patience with you, Angus. I’ve had her angry at me and it is no pleasure ride.”

“He’s right. Eat.” Rebecca poked the spoon at his mouth again. “It’s just oatmeal. I won’t poison you.” Angus hesitated, but after the first mouthful he ate greedily until Rebecca set the bowl down. “Eat any more and I’m afraid you’ll be sick again,” she said ruefully, and Jack wondered what messes she’d been dealing with while he was gone. Probably plenty of the unpleasant sort. Maybe Angus was going to have to worry about her embarrassing him after all. “We’ll come back, I promise. Get some rest.” She rested her hand on his head for a moment, then stood.

“Th-thank you,” Angus whispered, and Jack reached for his hand, taking the _sporran_ out of his jacket pocket.

“I thought you might be wanting this back as well.” Jack handed over the pouch.

Angus took the bag slowly, probably afraid to move his arms too far and tug at his healing back. He fingered the letters, smiling, and then pulled out the tarnished brooch.

“I’ve never seen a coat of arms like that,” Jack said quietly. “What is it, an eagle?” He’d never paid too much attention to the brooches on the MacGyver clansmen’s plaids. He’d been lucky to remember their tartan design.

“The phoenix is my family crest,” Angus said softly. “The MacGyvers have survived many a terrible thing, and we have never given up hope. Even from ashes, we come back strong.”

“You are certainly a credit to the family name, then.” Jack had never seen anyone as resourceful or determined as Angus. _I’m going to make sure he finds his way home if it kills me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the blend of the use of Google Translate and a super-sketchy knowledge of Latin from a high school AP course. If anyone can translate the family motto more accurately, comment it to me and I'll change it. Thanks :)


	7. Secrets+Iron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a Will/Bozer POV. I hope it's decent. He's the hardest to get a read on in terms of internal dialogue and voice.

Will was hammering a replacement for a damaged door latch when he heard hoofbeats clattering into the courtyard. He dropped the metal in the tempering pail and the tongs and hammer on the anvil, rushing to the window. He rubbed his hand thoughtlessly, where a piece of hot horseshoe had burnt him the day before when he’d done nearly the same thing.

He’d been watching for every rider that came back to Fort Douglass, and for that matter, anyone who came in on foot. Rebecca had been gone now almost three days. Major Dalton had assured Will that she was safe, but the major had looked exhausted when he’d come in and practically fallen from his feet into a dead slumber in the straw pile. Something was very, very wrong, and Will had no idea what it was.

Rebecca led Raven and her own horse into the stable, then started removing their tack and rubbing them down herself. Aside from Jack and Will, she was the only person who could get close to the Highland horse. She looked exhausted, judging by the way she was missing patches of dust and sweat on the horses’ coats and struggling to lift the saddles to their rests. That wasn’t at all like the Rebecca Will was used to seeing.

She was wearing a pair of trousers clearly too large for her as well. Will wondered what exactly had happened out there on the moor. If anyone had hurt Rebecca… He left the metal to cool and the fire to flicker down and went to the stables.

It was a clear sign of how worn down Rebecca was that she failed to notice Will’s arrival until he touched her arm. She startled like a spooked horse, jumping and gasping.

“Rebecca, it’s only me.”

“You frightened me,” she scolded, continuing to rub at Raven’s coat.

“What happened? You left for days. I was afraid you were dead.”

“I’m capable of taking care of myself perfectly well, William Bow.” He took the rag from her hand, she looked almost ready to drop it.

“I’ve never seen you vanish like that. Not even to nurse someone.”

“You’ve known me less than a year. I stay when it’s necessary. I spent two weeks in a crofter’s cottage at our last posting caring for a widow and her three young ones, all down with the grippe.”

“I know how much you care, but it’s not safe to be outside the fort just now, with the problems between the soldiers and those Jacobite raiders. You could be trapped in the middle of their fight. And if the one who escaped here is desperate enough for help, who knows what he would do if he found you alone?” Will hadn’t seen the man much, but he had seen Murdoc whip him. The Highlander’s punishment had haunted his dreams for too many nights. Except that he always stopped seeing the young Scot and it was Rebecca’s face twisted with pain, _her_ back sliced open over and over. The Jacobite had to be in terrible pain, possibly ill, and he might see Rebecca as a potential helper.

“I promise, I’ll tell you everything when it’s safe to.” She started to leave, and he couldn’t let her walk out that door because he had the oddest feeling that if she walked away now he would never see her again.

“If you’re in danger, I should be too. You need to trust me, Rebecca.” He met her stare unflinchingly, even though it hurt to know she was angry with him. “I promised I would be there for you now, even if I couldn’t change your past. And that means I need to know the bad things as well as the good.”

Rebecca seemed to crumple, her head drooping, her eyes on her feet. She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ve spent so long not knowing who can be trusted.”

“You can always trust me.” Will cupped her cheek in his hand. “I swear, as long as there is a breath left in me, I will never give you reason to doubt my honor or my integrity.” Rebecca reached for his hand, pressing it even tighter against her cheek for a moment, then pulling him into an empty stall. Will glanced over the boards to make sure no one had seen. Rebecca was never one for social graces or customs, but if someone saw the two of them together here, by themselves, there would be talk.

“Shh. If anyone hears us, Jack and I will probably be killed, and someone else is sure to be.” Rebecca pulled his attention back to her. “You were talking about the Jacobite Murdoc captured.” Will nodded. “He’s the one I was helping. Morag told me it was her son that was hurt so I wouldn’t be afraid to come. But she was helping him hide there.”

At first Will didn’t comprehend what she was saying. _She did find him, and he did ask for her help. I was right._ Then the full significance of the statement rocked him.

“He’s at Morag Duncan’s?”

“Will, hush.” Rebecca slapped her hand over his lips, gaze darting about frantically. Will pushed her hand aside and she glared at him.

“No, you don’t understand. The colonel has been sending his men to search large areas thoroughly. They’re going north tomorrow. They’ll be searching the place the Duncans’ croft is.” His hands felt cold, his stomach sinking. _If she’d stayed away for one more day, she would have been found with him._

“Heaven help us.” Rebecca whispered. “I need to tell Jack.”

“ _We_ need to tell Jack. Whatever happens, I need to stay with you. I won’t let you disappear again.” Will twined his fingers through Rebecca’s. “I promised you could trust me. And I mean that with all my heart.”


	8. Knapsack+Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's POV
> 
> I swear I have never written a story this fast in my entire life. I have no idea what's happening. But I'm not going to question it.

Jack felt like he’d left a part of his heart back there in the Duncans’ cottage. Even though he and Rebecca had left Angus safely in Morag’s capable hands, Jack had felt rather like he was abandoning the boy.

He left Rebecca with the horses and crossed the yard to the house. He avoided looking at the dark-stained pole to his right. He wished he’d had the common human decency to step in and stop Murdoc then, before he’d beaten his prisoner half to death. Jack had been nearly sick when he’d seen the full extent of the damage to Angus’s back. Rebecca had said he’d heal, but he’d have the terrible scars as a reminder for the rest of his life.

Someone was waiting at his door when he walked up. Jack saluted Sergeant Williams, but the man didn’t move aside.

“What is it, Williams?”

“Sir, Colonel Murdoc said when you returned you were not to leave Fort Douglass. I was asked to take you to his office when you returned.” Williams shook his head. “The man’s gone mad, sir. He’s accusing you of helping the Jacobite escape.”

“Where is he now?”

“He rode out searching for you.”

“Then I’d best be gone when he returns.”

“He cannot hold you without proof.”

“He’ll find something he can claim. And I’ll be dancing on the end of a rope for treason before the day’s out.” Jack tried to hold down the rising panic. Murdoc could return at any moment. Worse, he could find Angus and, knowing Jack was looking after him, torture the boy to wring a confession from Jack. Or he could take Rebecca. Jack felt sick at the thought of that bastard ever laying a hand on his daughter.

“You should go to General Howe at Fort Cameron, make your case there before the colonel does. I’m sure your innocence will be proven without issue.” Jack cringed a bit at the trust Williams had in him. The man had no idea Murdoc, for once in his life, was not lying.

“I’ll do just that. Thank you for this, Williams, I won’t forget it.” Jack clapped the man warmly on the shoulder. “Whatever happens, I hope you know I’m deeply grateful to you. And if I don’t see you again until this godforsaken war’s over, if you ever track me down I’m good for a drink at any pub between Glasgow and London.”

Jack opened the door to find the room inside even more chaotic than usual. His desk had been rifled through, his papers scattered. It looked as if the search had begun cautiously but ended in frustration and anger. He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction that his system of organized chaos had frustrated Murdoc’s sense of order.

He began packing, rapidly but methodically. At least Williams would be able to spread a reasonable excuse for his disappearance. By the time anyone realized he was not in Fort Cameron, he’d with any luck be hundreds of miles in the opposite direction. He and Rebecca could take a ship to France. There would be no more trouble over who was British or Jacobite. Jack spoke passable French and Rebecca was adaptable. They would survive.

He’d need to warn Angus, but hopefully searching for Jack would make Murdoc less focused on the Highlander. Maybe by the time he cleared up the confusion at Fort Cameron, Angus would have had time to recover and escape. Jack would like nothing more than to take the boy with him and Rebecca, give him a chance to start over, but he knew Angus would never leave Scotland. The Highlands were bred in his bones.

Rebecca burst through the door, startling him from his thoughts. “Jack. We have to warn Angus to leave, now. Murdoc’s men are planning to search the area tomorrow?”

“What?”

“He’s asked for ten horses reshod for rocky ground. He’s going north tomorrow.” Will was standing behind Rebecca.

“And he knows I was helping Angus escape. He’s asked for me to be held here.”

“We’ll go warn him.” Rebecca was pale but her face was set with determination. Jack knew she was afraid for him, but she also knew he would never forgive himself if focusing on his own problems caused Angus to be recaptured.

“Sergeant Williams was sent to take me to Murdoc’s office. He told me he thinks the Colonel has lost his mind, and advised me to travel to Fort Cameron to put my innocence to General Howe’s decision.”

“The only evidence he can have is circumstance. I’m sure Howe will believe you.” Rebecca sounded as if her thoughts were less certain than her words.

“I’m leaving, but I’m not going to Fort Cameron. I was planning on the two of us sailing for France, after we warned Angus of the danger.”

Rebecca looked shaken, but she nodded. “You think our only choice left is to leave?”

“I think it would be best. We at the very least won’t need to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”

She glanced at Will. “I can’t ask you to leave with us. It’s too much.”

“What do I have here? A job that I work like a dog every day to do, without a word of thanks from most of the men, working for a monster who’s possibly the devil himself. I have nothing here to hold me. My family is gone. But you are my family.” He took her hand, gripping it tightly, and Jack saw just a bit of the fear and tension slip from her face.

“Then get ready. Get us four horses, Will, please.”

“Four?”

“One for Angus. The Highlander. He can’t take the Duncans’ ancient cart horse to escape the British Army.” Rebecca bundled Will forcibly out the door. “Hurry. We don’t know when Murdoc will return.”

She began packing as rapidly as Jack, filling a small knapsack with her own things, then another for Angus with food that could be traveled with and some of the clothes she’d finished repairing for Jack. “The least we can do is make certain he’s prepared to travel.” She looked tired, frightened, and so terribly young, but she was stronger than almost anyone Jack knew. She was shoving aside every worry she had about her own safety, every fear she had for him, until she was certain Angus would be safe.

When Will returned with the horses, Jack closed and locked the door. It might slow Murdoc down, and buying themselves even a few moments was worth the effort now. A few minutes could be the difference between a successful escape or all of them returning to Fort Douglass in chains.

After a moment, he unlocked the door again, took his red jacket from the hook near the door, and bundled it into his bag as well. For one thing, if Murdoc went inside and saw it there, he’d know Jack hadn’t gone to Fort Cameron on official business, not without his uniform. And part of Jack wanted to keep a memento of the life that had been, for the past twenty-three years, all he had known. The army had been his family, his friends, his world. And now he was walking away from it all. He slammed the door and locked it again, then swung onto his mare. “Let’s go.”

If they rode hard, they’d wear the horses out before they could get well away from the fort, but Jack chafed at every minute as they made their way to the Duncans’. If Murdoc had already found his way there, if he’d found Angus sick and weak and unable to fight back…Jack didn’t want to imagine what cruelty Murdoc could inflict on the helpless boy.

He was more relieved than he would ever admit to anyone when, as they rode up, Morag met them, her hands full of wool. “What are ye doin’ back here?” she grumbled. “I thought ye’d be content to leave me in peace and quiet. Not that there’s much o’ that with the laddie tryin’ to get back on his feet every time he’s left to himself.” Jack couldn’t help a small laugh. _Why am I not surprised?_

When they entered the house, Morag’s daughter was there, half-yelling in Gaelic as Angus tried to swing his feet over the side of the bed. Jack noted, thankfully, that he’d been aware enough this time to bundle the blanket tightly around his waist. When he heard them come in, he looked up, and met Jack’s eyes almost sheepishly from under the fringe of messy blond.

“You know, if you weren’t already battered, Rebecca’d have your hide for trying to get out of that bed again,” Jack said. “Unfortunately, it looks like you might have the right idea. The colonel’s going to be bringing his men this way tomorrow morning, and you’d best be gone before he finds you.”

Angus paled for a moment, but Jack saw the set of his jaw harden in the next. “Ye’ve done more than enough. I’ll make ma own way from here.” He swayed on his feet, then sat down quite ungracefully. And Jack’s plans fell to shatters at his feet. He couldn’t leave someone this weak and defenseless to his own devices to escape.

“You’ll never make it through Murdoc’s search alone.” Jack glanced back at Rebecca and Will. “I’ll get you safely through to safe country.”

“Ye needn’t…”

“I’m leaving myself, the colonel’s become suspicious of what I’m doing. Leaving the country’s the safest thing I can do.” Jack grasped Will’s shoulder. “Take Rebecca, and no matter what happens, do not return. Find a ship to France, wait for me for two weeks in Calais. I have a friend there, a Betrice LaPointe. If I don’t find you, go and make new lives for yourselves wherever you can. Godspeed.”

“We’re going nowhere without you, Jack!” Rebecca was gripping his arm. “I don’t care if it is dangerous. I’m not leaving you and Angus.”

“And I’m not leaving her.” Will shook his head. “Where she goes, I go.”

“Then I suppose we’re all going to the Highlands,” Jack said. “We need to leave as soon as possible. Angus, do you think you can ride?”

“I can.” Jack was fairly certain the boy was lying through his gritted teeth, but it was going to need to be good enough. He wasn’t certain they’d be fast enough to outpace Murdoc’s men if they took a cart.

Rebecca handed him the bag she’d filled with Jack’s old clothes. “I thought you might prefer not leaving that bed naked again.” Angus’s cheeks flushed crimson. Jack hid a chuckle in his sleeve. “Will and I will be outside with the horses.” Rebecca closed the door and left.

Angus dug through the satchel and pulled out a loose shirt. He reached to put one arm through a sleeve and hissed in pain. He tried again, more slowly, and Jack noticed a trickle of large tears starting to spill down his cheeks. He said nothing, though. He might not know much about Angus, but he was fairly certain the boy wasn’t going to want sympathy, now that he was aware enough to be embarrassed by it. Finally, Angus stopped trying and glanced up at Jack, his eyes filled with a heartbreaking mixture of pain and humiliation. “Can ye…I could use your help.” The words were almost too quiet for Jack to hear. It sounded like admitting he needed help was hurting the boy worse than his back.

He gently slipped the shirt over Angus’s bony shoulders and adjusted it around his bandaged arms and back, then helped him stand and slide his legs into the trousers. Angus’s waist was almost as thin as Rebecca’s, and Jack tied the trousers with a piece of cord she’d thrown into the bag. His clothing was laughably large on the boy’s slender body; he looked like a child who was trying to seem like a man by dressing like his father.

“I can walk.” Angus tried to push Jack’s hands away, but he was shaking like a leaf in a storm, and Jack was fairly sure if he let go the boy would be facedown on the floor again in moments.

“I don’t doubt it, but humor me.” Jack helped him outside and onto the horse Will had brought for him, a steady, dependable mare who was hard to frighten. Angus sat quietly, head drooping and swaying slightly in the saddle, but he was for the most part steady. It would need to be good enough.

“Morag, burn anything that’s been bloodied. Make sure it looks as if he was never here.” Jack was certain the woman would be careful. She’d survived too long to leave anything to chance.

“I owe ye my life,” Angus whispered when Jack stood next to him preparing to mount. “If ye need a place to stay in the Highlands, ma family’s door will always be open to ye.”

“Thank you.” Jack mounted. A thought was beginning to cross his mind. Maybe he and Rebecca wouldn’t need to flee the island itself. “Are you going back home?”

“Nae. I cannae go back to the land and the peace while ma brothers and sisters are bein’ hunted here.” Angus looked equal parts regretful and determined. “I’ll stay with ma mother’s kin until I heal, and then return to the Jacobites.” He glanced at Jack. “I’m sure they’ll be grateful to ye as well. I’ll put in a good word for ye, but I cannae promise they’ll allow ye to stay.” Jack could see something else in the boy’s face now, an almost desperate desire to hold onto Jack and Rebecca, as if they were his family as well. _He wants us to stay with him as much as I want that._

“Then we’ll find a boat to France.” Jack pulled his mare into step with Angus’s horse, and Will did the same on the other side, ready to support the boy in case he fell. Angus looked embarrassed by the attention, but better that than having him fall and make his injuries worse. Rebecca rode ahead, her sharp eyes their first lookout for trouble.

Jack avoided looking back at the last dim outlines of Fort Douglass. He had done what he had done. There was no turning back now.


	9. Gunpowder+Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac POV
> 
> The third chapter in a day...Geez. Like I said, this story is just writing itself. I'm just following the characters around and scribbling madly as I try to keep up with their antics. And figure out what exactly is going on in Mac's head. The trouble with writing a character smarter than I am ;) Which is why I've written most of his "MacGyverisms" from another character's perspective. Jack is usually just as confused as I am. But the one in this chapter, I figured I could understand well enough to try writing it from Mac's view of events.

Angus just wanted to sleep. His back ached and burned, his whole body felt heavy and limp, and if it wasn’t for Jack and the other man riding beside him (Angus couldn’t remember his name, he could barely remember his own at this point) he was sure he’d have fallen off his horse a dozen times by now. That was assuming he could have gotten on the horse again after the first fall.

They were riding steadily north, but taking the path of least resistance, winding around hills rather than climbing them and following rivers to find the best places to ford. Angus felt guilty; he was slowing the others down. If it weren’t for having to take care of him they’d be well into safety by now.

He’d tried to tell them not to come, but Jack wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t really understand the man. Jack needed to leave, he’d said he was about to be arrested for treason, but he should have taken Rebecca and gone where he needed to. He shouldn’t have changed his plans to help Angus. That wasn’t the way things happened. Angus was always supposed to be able to take care of himself. He shouldn’t ever rely on anyone else to make sure he was going to stay alive. He was responsible for making sure everyone, including himself, was safe. And if trying to protect him put other people at risk, they had to leave. Jamie had left him with Conall, Conall had left him to himself on the estate, and the Jacobites had left him with Kirke. But Jack wasn’t leaving.

According to Jack’s estimates, they had until the next morning before the British patrols moved into their area. But Angus wasn’t sure they’d be far enough away by then. They were moving too slowly.

By the time night fell, they’d crossed two rivers and begun to turn west, following Angus’s directions. He hoped he still knew where they were. This was the way the Jacobites usually rode into the area, but they were taking so many side trails and long redirections that Angus wasn’t quite sure if his directions would still be good. At the moment, all he cared about was getting far, far away from Fort Douglass and Colonel Murdoc.

Angus didn’t usually have a problem sleeping anywhere and everywhere, but the uneven ground was hell on his still-healing body, and as soon as the dew started to rise, he couldn’t stop shivering. The blanket from the bedroll Will (his name was Will, Angus needed to remember that) was too thin. Normally he didn’t get cold so easily, but he’d been sick for days and he was fairly certain he hadn’t fully recovered from the fever itself. And a fire was out of the question. They needed to stay unseen as long as possible.

Jack handed him his blanket. “Lay this under you, it’ll help with the cold and the hard ground.”

“I cannae take yours.” Angus tried to toss it back but the movement was painful and the blanket simply fell on the ground in front of him.

“If you don’t, I’ll just lift you up and lay it under you myself. Don’t think I can’t; I’ve picked you up more times this week than I care to remember.” Angus sighed and spread the blanket over the slightly softer patch of heather he’d found to sleep on. Jack laid down again, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing. 

Angus didn’t sleep much that night, but he did learn plenty about his traveling partners. For one thing, Will snored. Incessantly and loudly. Angus finally gave up trying to ignore the godawful noise and dug a small handful of moss and heather up to stuff into his ears. Even Dougal MacKinnon hadn’t been this annoying, when he was with the Jacobites. Or maybe he’d slept farther from everyone else then. Here, he was so close to Jack their backs were almost touching, and Rebecca, rolled over facing him, was talking softly in her sleep.

Despite his exhaustion, Angus was wide awake. The idea of the British patrol, possibly already riding out in search of him and the others, had him on edge. He was always tense when he knew he was being hunted, but usually that tension was the driving force that kept him working with the kind of feverish desperation he’d needed to stay one step ahead of the British. Now, hurting and exhausted, he felt helpless. And that was terrifying. Angus was good at salvaging the worst possible situations. There was always a solution, always a way out. But now, he was struggling to even think. If something happened, he wasn’t sure he could protect anyone.

The morning dawned misty and grey, and barely an hour into the ride, the dark, low clouds broke and a Scottish spring rainstorm swept down on them. Cold rain spattered their faces, and the horses kept their heads down, sloshing hooves through a sea of mud. Angus shivered. The shirt and trousers Jack had given him were a poor substitute for the warmth of his plaid and kilt. Even if the heavy wool his tartan was made from was soaked through, it kept him warm.

He tried to bite his tongue and keep his teeth from chattering, and leaning over the horse’s neck kept him a bit warmer, but Jack misinterpreted the lean as the beginning of a fall, and grabbed Angus’s shoulder to hold him on the horse.

“Good god, you’re frozen.”

“I-I’m f-f-fine.” He mentally cursed the chattering stutter. He shouldn’t have spoken up. It was just a rainstorm. He’d ridden through hundreds of them and yes, they were miserable, but he’d live. He always had in the past. Jack slipped his arms out of his jacket and handed it to Angus. “I c-cannae take your coat. Ye need it.”

“I’ve got another.” Jack dug in his bag and pulled out his red military jacket. “Take this.” He draped the jacket over Angus’s shoulders, and the sudden warmth, as the cloth that had been staying warm and fairly dry against Jack’s body was transferred to him, was such a relief he sagged even lower in the saddle. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until then.

They continued, Rebecca still in the lead, shielding her eyes with her hand and the hood of her cloak to try and see through the deluge. If they rode within fifty paces of the British, neither one would ever be the wiser in this weather. The constant sheets of water falling from the sky made everything around them invisible, and the pounding water drowned out the hoofbeats. Despite the icy chill of water slowly making its way through Jack’s coat and into his body, Angus was grateful for the rain. It was washing away any trail they might have left, and hiding them from the search party. Angus had always thought the land had an odd way of looking out for its own when it was truly needed.

The rain continued well past midday, and then the clouds began to roll back to reveal a weak sun gleaming in the west. Angus recognized the massive rise of stone ahead of them. A ridge like the skeletal backbone of some giant stretched across the land between Fort Douglass and the Jacobites’ holdout. They were coming back home.

They’d nearly reached the ridge when Rebecca, who’d wheeled her horse to look behind them, suddenly dropped her hand and came cantering back to the group.   
“Riders. At least a dozen,” she whispered. “Can’t be Murdoc’s men, but it doesn’t matter to us now. Any British are a problem. But I believe they’ve seen us. They were traveling south, but they’ve begun to move west.”

“Once we cross over those hills, we’re in Wallace’s country. No _Sassenachs_ travel there unless they want to risk an ambush they wouldnae see comin’.” Angus glanced back at the moor behind them. “We just need to get through.”

“And quickly. They’re coming at a gallop now,” Rebecca said. “Jack, I think they’ve seen your coat. Possibly they think you’re one of their own, in trouble or captured. Maybe they assume you’re being taken prisoner into the Wallaces’ lands.”

“Damn.” Jack yanked his damp red jacket off and shoved it back into his bag. “Never thought I’d be hoping my own people didn’t want to rescue me.”

The path through the rocky pass was single file, so Jack and Will moved behind Angus. He didn’t feel quite so much like he would fall now. The rain seemed to have washed away the last of the fever with it, and even though he was ravenously hungry, he felt more clearheaded than he had in days.

Unfortunately, the horses hadn’t fared as well as he had from the rain. They were exhausted from the mud, and ahead of him Rebecca’s horse stumbled, then fell. She climbed off unhurt, moving to the side of the trail to let Angus pass, then mounted Jack’s horse, the sturdiest the group had, behind him, leading her own. Angus could tell his own horse was tiring, and starting to favor her left foreleg. The British patrol had been riding hard, and given the direction they’d been coming from, they were riding from Fort Jamieson to Fort Cameron. They couldn’t have been on the road much more than a few hours.

He looked back. The pass was narrow, and there were rocks stacked on either side. His doing, along with the other Jacobites. This pass had been blocked up with a rockfall a few months ago, after the heavy winter snows dislodged a cornice overhanging the trail. Jack and Rebecca were just winding their way through the narrow space between the rocks. Jack’s musket, hanging from the saddle, clattered against the stone, and then Angus blinked. There was a way to stop those riders from being able to follow their trail.

“We’ll never make it through before they catch up.” He reined his horse in in a slightly wider space and allowed Jack and Will to ride beside him. He slid painfully off his horse’s back and held out his hand to Jack. “I need your musket. And cartridges.” Jack shook his head.

“As much as I want to trust you, laddie, I’m not about to hand my weapon over to a Jacobite. Might be too tempting.”

“I wouldna shoot ye. But I need the gunpowder, to distract them.” He held out one hand. “If ye want us to live through the night, I’ll be needin’ that.” Jack gave him a confused look, but handed over the weapon. Angus took his knife from his _sporran_ and began removing the musket’s flintlock and firing pan. This, he knew how to do. The British might be riding down on them, he might be injured and trapped, but he was finally able to do something about it. And doing something, no matter how small, kept him sane.

Jack slid off his horse and leaned over Angus’s shoulder, watching him work. “I’m not quite certain how much you know about guns, laddie, but that thing is more dangerous to them when it’s all in one piece.”

“Ye’re wrong.” Angus continued disassembling the musket, wiping sweaty strands of his hair off his face. Once he had what he needed, he bit off the ends of Jack’s cartridges, grimacing and spitting out the sulfur taste of gunpowder in his mouth, and poured a liberal amount of it into a crack in the rockface, just below an overhang that looked unsteady enough to dislodge from the explosion. He collected a handful of smaller rocks and jammed them into the crack to contain the gunpowder flash and force it deeper into the rock. It needed to explode, not just flare. He set the flintlock in a small gap he’d left in the stones, unraveling a string from his shirt and tying it to the firing mechanism. He hoped it would work, the flint and powder were likely to be damp and if the explosion failed, it would alert the patrol to their exact location. He ducked behind a pile of the boulders and motioned for the others to do the same. “Tie the horses so they don’t bolt.”

Jack frowned at him. “What in the name of all things holy are you doing?”

“Makin' a rockfall to block our path.”

“With my musket?”

“I need the firing pan and hammer to set off the gunpowder from far enough away that the rocks willnae bury us all when they start fallin’.” Angus nodded to the string. “Ye dinna want to know how I learned that.”

He could hear hoofbeats. It was now or never, because if they got too close before he was able to set the explosion off, the rocks might not fall until the riders had already passed. He closed his eyes and pulled the string.

There was a bang that rattled the ground and set the horses stamping and snorting. Then, for a long moment, nothing again but the alerted shouts of the British and their horses coming at a gallop.

Angus jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jack. “We need to be going now. Those horses might still have one gallop in them if it kills them.” And then there was a low roar, and Angus yanked Jack back down behind the rock, and chips of stone and a cloud of dust rolled over them.

When the dust cleared, Angus blinked and glanced over the rock behind him. The path was completely buried, and on the other side, he could hear shouting and terrified horses. He could hear something much closer to him too, and it was an even more reassuring sound than the ones telling him their pursuit had been foiled.

Jack was laughing. Really, properly laughing, bent over and half-crying with mirth. “That…that’s a damn miracle,” he gasped out, hardly able to speak. “I never would have believed anyone could do it. I give you a flintlock and spare cartridges and you can move a mountain!”

Angus felt a sudden stab of hope building in his chest that had nothing to do with his still-healing ribs. This was the closest thing to a family he’d had in far too long. He didn’t want to lose them now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my family got a fish today. And said fish has now survived being carried in my mom’s hand (with no water), jumping out of his bowl, falling under a table, and getting covered in dust and tangled in stray hairs. I’m tempted to suggest we call him Angus.


	10. Campfire+Rope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack POV

The Highlander was going to make a rockslide. Supposedly. By using pieces of Jack’s flintlock. The way the situation was going, Jack thought he’d prefer to have his weapon in functioning fighting condition, not missing some fairly vital components. He’d done what the boy asked, hiding behind the pile of loose stones beside the trail, but he was fairly certain this plan was doomed to fail. Knowing Angus could knock him off his horse with a branch was one thing. That was far less complicated than creating a controlled collapse of half a mountain with pieces of a musket and possibly damp gunpowder.

Jack’s skepticism was put to rest when, just as he was about to bodily drag the boy out of there and pray the horses could at least get them over the ridge before keeling over, he heard the low roar of sliding masses of stone.

The horses’ whinnies beyond it were panicky, and he could hear furious curses. He remembered being in their position, not all that long ago. Damn, it felt good to be on the other side of one of Angus MacGyver’s plans for once.

“I give you a flintlock and spare cartridges and you can move a mountain!” Jack still couldn’t believe he’d just watched Angus do that. How that boy could look at ordinary things and see ways to use them that defied all convention was completely beyond Jack’s capacity. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful.

“It may move more.” Angus was studying the rocks with a frown. “I think that slide made the whole side of that hill unstable. We shouldnae be here if it crumbles.” He started to remount his horse and winced. Jack noticed spreading dark stains on his pale shirt.

“You are not going anywhere until I look at your back.” Rebecca rested her hands on Angus’s shoulders. “Sit down, or I will make you.” Angus took a single glance at her face and then did exactly as he’d been asked.

Rebecca gently lifted Angus’s shirt over his head, then unwound the bandages. Most of the whip gashes were healing, but three or four that had been crossed over more than once with the lash were open, with blood trickling sluggishly down Angus’s back.

“Will, bring me my bag.” He handed Rebecca her satchel and stood watching her work.

“How did you know how to do that?” Will asked. Jack didn’t think the farrier’s eyes had gone back to a normal human size since the explosion. “I can’t believe you looked at that wall of rock and thought you could break it apart with a musket and some gunpowder.”

“I’ve done it before,” Angus said, then flinched as Rebecca smeared something dark onto his cuts. “But nae with the musket.” He pointed out a dark patch of skin on one forearm. “I lit it meself and the explosion caught me. Buried me under some rock as well. Was lucky to get out alive.”

Will’s jaw gaped. “How many times have you nearly killed yourself with these things you do?”

“It’s war. We all expect to die fightin’ here.” Jack guessed that meant that hadn’t been Angus’s only close call. He felt sick at the thought that it was people like him who made it necessary for a kind, intelligent person like Angus to nearly kill himself trying to stop them. _People like who I used to be. I’m not one of them anymore._ He wondered how many times he and his men had nearly caught the boy, or had forced him to do something this dangerous to allow him and the other Jacobites to escape.

Rebecca finished rewrapping the bandages. “When we reach the Wallace clan, you’ll need to have them look after these better, but I think this should get us there.” She glanced up at the sky. “Do you think we can reach this place we’re going by nightfall?”

“Nae. It’s a good way from here. Best to come down off this ridge and make camp, and ride out in the mornin’.”

Jack was going for his horse when he heard something rustle in the scrub trees on the hillside. It sounded like a purposeful movement, not the shamble of some badger snuffling for prey, or a rabbit scavenging the low grasses. He stared into the gathering dusk, hoping the British hadn’t been resourceful enough to find a quick way around Angus’s rockslide.

“Move, _Sassenach,_ and it will be the last thing ye ever do.” Jack could feel a small circle of cold metal against his side. Standing beside his horse was a tall, bearded man in a kilt and plaid, his flintlock musket aimed at Jack’s heart.

“Angus. I think your little explosion brought someone to take a look.” Jack wasn’t fond of being on the wrong end of a flintlock. Especially since his was, courtesy of Angus, in a few pieces currently.

“Robert!” The boy shouted, looking pleadingly at the older man and talking rapidly in Gaelic.

“Angus MacGyver? We thought ye were dead, laddie!” Robert looked stricken. “We heard Kirke turned traitor and handed ye over.”

“These people helped me escape.” Angus stood, wincing.

“My god, what happened to ye?” Robert stared at the wounds crossing far enough to be seen on Angus’s shoulders and sides in the setting sunlight. “Ah, laddie.”

“It’s nothin’. I’ll mend.” Angus struggled back into his shirt.

“A whippin’s nae nothin’.” Robert glanced at the others. “And you say the _sassenachs_ here helped you.” His voice dripped skepticism. Jack thought it was probably warranted. This didn’t look good. They were three British, admittedly only one of them military, with one wounded Jacobite. It probably looked like they’d tortured Angus into cooperating, then forced him to lead them to the Jacobites’ hiding place.

“I’d be dead now if they hadnae.” Angus glanced at Jack, then began speaking Gaelic again, fast and tense. Jack noticed an angry set to Robert’s shoulders and the way the Jacobite kept looking at him, and wondered what exactly Angus was telling him. He knew it was unfair to want the boy to speak English here, in his own country where things were done on the Scottish terms, but he would like to know if Angus was holding Jack’s life in his hands. He wondered if this was how helpless and how much an outsider Angus had felt in the fort. Jack didn’t like having the tables turned, but he couldn’t complain. This was what the British had done to the Highlanders for decades.

Finally the conversation stopped. Angus turned to Jack. “He’s nae certain whether he can trust ye or nae, but he’s agreed to let me bring ye to the laird and let her make a decision.”

Jack blinked. He was fairly certain Angus had just said ‘her.’ “Who is this laird?”

“Moira Wallace. She’s the matriarch of the family. When her husband died, his brother planned to take the land since they’d never produced a surviving heir. She challenged him to a duel and won. Now the Loch Ainslie estate is hers.” Angus sounded quite proud of the woman.

“She sounds like a pleasant woman to meet.”  
“She’s nae so bad as you’re thinkin’. But she doesna take kindly to _sassenachs._ ” He glanced at the ground. “I dinna know what she’ll want to do with ye.” Jack nodded. “He doesnae want ye to travel alone wi’ me there. He thinks ye may be a spy. We’ll be bidin’ the night with him and the others camped watchin’ the pass, and they’ll take us to the manor in the mornin’.”

Jack didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep that night. Not surrounded by Jacobites with their muskets trained on him, and his hands tied uncomfortably behind his back. Will and Rebecca had their hands tied as well, all of them seated just inside the circle of firelight around which almost a dozen Jacobites were sitting. Two more were watching over the prisoners. 

The men were all friendly enough with Angus, but the boy didn’t look as happy to see them as he should have. From what Jack could piece together from what Angus had said, the boy was more or less a tool for the Jacobites. They appreciated his skills, but it didn’t sound as if the boy was their friend. The others sat around their fire with their whiskey and Gaelic chatter and laughter, and many of them were glancing at the newcomers before making comments. Jack glared at the ones who looked Rebecca’s way.

Angus seemed unsure which of the two groups he belonged with. He’d joined the others at the fire at first, taking a drink with them, trying to avoid having his back slapped in comradeship. But after a while he’d started looking back at Jack and Rebecca and Will. And when the stories got louder, the laughter got freer, and the whiskey was passed more often, he started moving slowly back, out of the circle of the firelight, toward them. He ended up sitting so close to Jack he could have reached out and brushed the boy’s messy hair aside, or put a hand on his shoulder, if his hands had been free to do so.

“Jack?” Rebecca was leaning against him. “What if this Wallace doesn’t believe Angus’s story? What if she thinks we are spies?”

“I don’t know. But I’m the one she’ll be worried about. I’ll make sure whatever happens she doesn’t hurt you.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” She slipped her cold hand into Jack’s and squeezed it, two long squeezes and one short. Jack remembered the signal, and even in their predicament, it made him smile. This hand grip had been a part of their past. Rebecca had assumed Jack would keep her for a few years, grow tired of her, and sell her to the next owner. He’d promised her he never would, and whenever he knew she was worried he was angry enough with her to sell her away, he’d squeeze her hand in that rhythm.

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she believes I have no intention of returning to the British side, but I think the real convincing is up to Angus.” He glanced at the boy, who was sitting with his head down, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Jack, what are we doing?” Rebecca whispered. “What have we done?” He didn’t want to admit to her he was asking himself the same thing. He’d made a hasty decision and now for the rest of their lives they would live with the consequences.

“We did the right thing, Rebecca. And I promise, I will keep you safe.” He wanted to put an arm around her, but the best he could do was lean a bit closer while she rested her head on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to who Moira Wallace is?


	11. Hands+Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short Rebecca POV because I wanted to show her perspective on the last chapter's events.

Rebecca didn’t know what she was expecting bringing Angus home to be like, but she hadn’t expected to be treated like the enemy, tied up and watched over by an armed guard.

“Will, I’m so sorry we dragged you into this.” She had never felt so guilty. Will hadn’t known what he was going to have to do when he promised to come with them. He certainly couldn’t have expected this to happen.

“It’s not your fault.” Will shifted awkwardly. “Damn it, I can’t feel my hands now.”

“Rub the rope in the dew on the grass, then twist your wrists a little,” she whispered. Rebecca had learned, on the horrific boat ride from Haiti to London, that wet ropes loosened. She’d already managed to get the bindings on her wrists to stop making her fingers tingle.

“Thank you.” Will looked relieved. “If you weren’t here, I think my hands might have fallen off.”

“If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be tied up with a musket pointed at you.”

“I’d be back in Fort Douglass helping the colonel get his men ready to go ride after and kill a wounded man. No matter what, this is better.” Will sighed, then his head dropped a bit lower. In a few minutes, he was snoring.

Rebecca leaned toward Jack. “Jack?” He half turned to look her in the eyes. “What if this Wallace doesn’t believe Angus’s story? What if she thinks we are spies?” The Jacobites already looked as if they would have no problem shooting Jack where he sat. There was no way to miss that he was a British soldier, not with the way he carried himself and the tack on his horse.

“I don’t know. But I’m the one she’ll be worried about. I’ll make sure whatever happens she doesn’t hurt you.” _It isn’t my life I’m worried for. If they kill you, that will be the second time my family’s been ripped away from me._

“I don’t want to lose you.” She squeezed his hand the way he used to when she worried he was going to get tired of her and make her go. She hadn’t done that in years, but just the familiar motion was comforting.

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she believes I have no intention of returning to the British side, but I think the real convincing is up to Angus.” She saw him glance briefly at the Highlander, who had moved away from the other Jacobites around the fire and was now sitting almost huddled close to Jack. When Jack glanced back at her, she kept her eyes on Angus, and was a bit startled when he glanced their way quickly, almost as if he were ashamed to be caught watching. There was something strange in his eyes when he looked at them. She couldn’t quite explain it. An almost hungry look, like they had food and he was starving, or a fire when he’d been walking through winter gales.

At first she couldn’t think of what was so enviable about their position. They were captives, suspected of being spies, their very lives hanging on the whim of a Jacobite-sympathetic laird with a legendary temper. She rested her head a bit heavier on Jack’s shoulder. She wasn’t tired, she just wanted to be as near him as possible, because she didn’t know what she would do if she lost the only father she’d ever known…

 _He wants this._ The realization was so sudden it made her flinch. Back in the Duncan cottage, when Angus had been delirious with fever, he’d repeated a few things over and over. She’d heard him call out for his mother, and beg someone to stop hurting him. She’d suspected then that that man in the nightmares, Jamie, had been the miserable excuse for a father Angus had had.

She’d been hoping that, like her, Angus would have found a new family with the people he lived alongside. He’d been with the Jacobite raiders and she’d hoped to see him join in their jovial gathering around the fire. But he’d seemed to hold himself away, and none of them acted as if they particularly noticed or cared that he was no longer near their group. They’d simply closed in around the place he’d been sitting and continued passing their bottle of whiskey and laughing at their Gaelic stories, while Angus sat away from them all, alone and shivering and watching Jack and Rebecca and Will like he would rather be with them than the Jacobites, but knew he should avoid them because they were prisoners now. Angus still looked so lost.

“Jack, what are we doing? What have we done?” She wondered what made Angus stay with people who treated him as if he was worthless to them unless they needed him to help them escape capture. Maybe he was simply truly dedicated to the cause, and fighting for what he believed in no matter who he had to do it with. Or maybe he was simply hoping over and over that someday, he’d prove he was good enough to be part of their circle of friends, to be welcomed as a brother. She had the sinking feeling it was the latter.

She wanted to sit next to him, explain to him that he wasn’t alone anymore, that once Jack cared about someone they became his family, and to come this far and risk so much, there was no saying Jack didn’t care about Angus with every fiber of his heart. But if she moved one step closer to the boy, she was fairly sure the man standing behind them would put a bullet in her head. So she leaned a little further on Jack’s shoulder and tried awfully hard to believe him when he said, “We did the right thing, Rebecca.”


	12. Feathers+Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack POV

The Jacobites were moving well before the sun rose, roughly kicking and shaking their prisoners awake. “Let’s be seein’ what the laird wants to do wi’ ye, shall we?” the man guarding Jack muttered. “She’ll be wantin’ to know how a _Sassenach_ ended up in Wallace lands.”

“We told you. We were helping Angus get home.” Rebecca was being her usual defiant self, and Jack hoped it wouldn’t get her into trouble.

“Ye can tell that to her yerself. See whether she’s in a mood to be believin’ British lies.” The man helped Jack and Rebecca roughly onto their horses, then tied the reins to their own saddles. Although Jack’s hands had been retied in front of him rather than behind, he was struggling to keep his balance, and hoped he wouldn’t fall. Arriving at the Wallace estate with a bruised face and bloodied or broken nose was not the impression he wanted to make.

He could see Angus riding near the front of the group. The boy had started the ride well, but as the morning wore on Jack could see him swaying in the saddle, starting to droop. There seemed to be more dark patches on his shirt than there had been the night before.

None of the Jacobites seemed to notice, or if they did they offered no assistance. Jack had seen firsthand how stubbornly Angus would refuse help, but the boy was in no fit condition to be left alone. Jack knew the kind of mentality most of the Jacobites likely had; the same as had been drilled into him as a soldier. _You will either die or recover. Either way, you need to continue to do your job. This is war, and no one else should be asked to risk themselves for you._ He understood it, but that did not mean he agreed with it.

A bit after midday, Jack saw a low wall looming on the top of a small hill above them. It was almost eerily similar to the walls of Fort Douglass. Jack had to shake the feeling that somehow they’d come all this way only to return to the place they’d escaped.

Robert, the man who’d found Jack and the others at the pass the previous day, broke away from the group and urged his horse to a gallop, probably riding ahead to alert the laird to their arrival and the prisoners they were bringing.  Jack wondered how much information about them he would give, and whether Robert would also include the speculation that they were spies.

When they rode up to the wall, the meadow in front of the manor was a hive of activity. A group of women were hanging laundry, several children were chasing each other with sticks, screaming and laughing, and a group of older children and some adults were butchering chickens. Jack could smell the wet feathers and blood already.

Angus was watching everyone intently, and then he pulled his horse away and slipped off, walking as quickly as his back would permit toward a girl plunging the beheaded hens into a steaming pail of water, then yanking away the soaked feathers.

“Catriona.” The girl pushed her sun-bleached hair away with a bloodied hand and dropped the chicken.

“Angus!” She crossed the distance between them in a few steps and wrapped her arms around him. He flinched and shuddered, and although Jack couldn’t hear it he’d bet the boy had gasped in pain. “What have they done to ye?”

“I wouldnae tell the British where the other riders were, so they flogged me.”

“No.” The girl’s face was stony with anger and horror. She began speaking again, but lower in tone, and Jack heard a few words he thought might have been Gaelic, while she began to remove Angus’s shirt to get a better look at the wounds.

“Catriona, I cannae stay. I have things to discuss with the laird. I’ll come back, I promise.” Angus pushed her hands away gently.

“Ye need to let me see to those wounds.”

“I will.”

“Nae, ye’ll dodge me like this every time I try.” Jack smiled. Obviously this girl knew Angus well. _So he’s as flighty and unwilling to accept help with his own people as he was with us._ Oddly, that made Jack feel a bit better, in a way he couldn’t explain.

The girl followed Angus back to his horse, which was now near where Jack and the others were passing. Jack watched the girl squeeze his hand before he remounted, and then shake her head when he began to struggle.

When he’d finally managed to get on the horse, after standing on one of the heavy sections of log that the chicken butchers were using as chopping blocks, he rode a bit closer to Jack.

“She’s the one whose letters ye found.”

Jack smiled. “Your sweetheart is a feisty one.” He didn’t know quite what to make of Angus’s sudden laughter.

“This is my _cousin_. Catriona Wallace. She spent a few summers at my grandfather Conall’s estate, and she was the closest thing to a family I had. Conall was the laird, he was always busy. She and I were like the sister and brother we’d never had. We got into a good bit of trouble together back then. She writes to me to tell me how her family is faring.”

Jack sighed.

“I never said the letters were from a sweetheart. Ye thought that yourself.” _Damnit, he’s right. I never bothered to ask._

“But she called you her love.”

“ _Mo cridhe_ means ‘my heart’, Jack.” Angus was still laughing. “She always said we were heart siblings.” Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever felt more ridiculous in his life. He could hear Rebecca giggling behind him, and he knew he’d have hell to pay from her after all this was over. “I’ve nae time for a sweetheart, riding with the Jacobites.” But something changed in Angus’s eyes as he said it. Jack wondered whether there was someone he’d given up. He knew from experience how much it hurt to choose a path that took you away from the person you loved. But he’d never regretted his choice. He hoped Angus didn’t regret his.

Once they rode through the gates of the manor, Jack, Rebecca and Will were forced to dismount. The others handed all the horses over to a young towheaded boy who led them away to a low stone building.

The house in front of them was impressive. While it appeared built to withstand a cannonade, the stonework was elegant in a strong way, and Jack recognized the thistle and spray of heather carved below the usual Wallace crest over the door. Each family modified the coat of arms to suit them, and this branch of the Wallaces must have adopted that symbol.

The massive oak doors opened, and for a moment Jack blinked and stared, because they seemed to be opening on their own. Then he looked down slightly and found himself locked in a defiant stare with a remarkably short, remarkably intimidating woman. She had to look up to meet the others’ eyes, but that didn’t diminish her sheer ferocity. Jack thought the massive claymore in her belt might have helped with that impression.

“So these are the spies.” _Damn it. Robert did tell her that._

“They’re name spies.” Angus moved to stand in front of Jack and the others. “They helped me escape Fort Douglass.”

“So you would lead them here. The British know they cannot take Loch Ainsley by force, so they let you escape, win your trust, and try to learn our secrets from inside.” Moira Wallace’s harsh stare had focused on Angus now, and he seemed to be withering under it. “I am glad ye are alive, Angus, but I am afraid ye may have misplaced your trust.” Jack glanced at him, willing the boy to not believe her, to trust them, but there was the same broken look in his eyes as when Jack had held him and let him be beaten. And shame was swirling there too, probably angry with himself for being so easily trusting.

“We are not spies.” Jack couldn’t stay quiet any longer, even if that was a terrible idea. “We’re running from the army as well. Because I helped Angus escape, my commander wants to see me swing for treason. We were going to sail for France, my family and I,” he gestured to Rebecca and Will before realizing what an odd ‘family’ they appeared to be, “but Angus was in no condition to travel alone, and the patrols were coming too soon for him to recover.”

“Ye expect me tae believe that a British officer,” and Moira held up Jack’s uniform coat, probably taken from his saddlebag in the night, “helped a Highland Jacobite escape and returned him to his people from the kindness o’ his heart?”

“It’s the truth.” Rebecca had stepped forward. “He saved me from a life of slavery and brutality, even though it cost him a great deal. He’s raised me as his daughter and I could not trust him more.”

“Angus, I would like to speak to ye. Here.” Head down, Angus climbed the steps to where Moira stood. She began snapping out rapid Gaelic sentences, and with each one Angus looked more chastised, staring at his boots, fingers playing restlessly with a broken buckle from a horse’s bridle that he’d taken from his _sporran_. Jack couldn’t understand much of Moira’s argument, but he’d heard the word _sassenach_ plenty of times.  And then the boy turned slightly and Moira must have caught a glimpse of his back. The rapid Gaelic softened, and Jack thought there might have been tears in the woman’s eyes. She touched a hand gently to the bloodstained fabric, then glanced back at Jack and the others as Angus continued to speak, quietly and haltingly. But Jack assumed it was in defense of them. At one point her eyes roved to Rebecca and she gave the girl a small, almost approving nod. Her gaze flicked to Will, and she said something to Angus. When he responded, she smiled. Jack thought that seemed to be a good sign.

Finally, the two stopped speaking, and Angus bent down gingerly so Moira could give him an equally careful embrace, avoiding resting her hands on her back. She pulled back and said something in a scolding tone, and Jack thought he’d heard Catriona’s name. _She’s likely telling him to make sure he lets that girl look after him._ Angus actually looked a bit frightened.

The woman might hold Jack’s life in her hands, but at least she could make Angus listen to her. Jack found himself giving her some grudging admiration. She might be harsh, but that was likely the result of years of being a woman, and a small one at that, in a position usually reserved to men. She’d managed to remain laird of Loch Ainsley, and that had to be no easy feat. If they were on the same side of this war, Jack was sure he’d find her both alluring and intimidating. As it was, he simply hoped she wouldn’t decide to have him killed.

Angus had stopped in front of Jack and begun untying his hands. Jack breathed a small sigh of relief. “She doesnae trust ye, but she trusts me. And she’s grateful to ye for savin’ my life. When I told her what ye and Rebecca had done for me, she agreed to allow ye to remain here. Ye can stay here until ye find a ship to France, but ye cannae leave the estate and ye cannae be askin’ us questions.”

“She’s an impressive woman. How do you know her?” He knew Angus had said the place belonged to his kin, but Jack was hard pressed to find a resemblance between the short, dark-haired woman and the tall blond boy.

“She’s my aunt. My mother’s sister. Catriona’s her niece as well.” Angus untied the others as well. “Ye’ll be stayin’ in the house, where she can keep a watch on ye.” He led the way up to the doors, and as Jack passed Moira, he felt her gaze burning into him. He wondered whether Angus had told him everything about the woman’s intentions. But there was no way to know for certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Moira is Matty and Catriona is loosely based on Samantha Cage.


	13. Memories+Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moira/Matty POV of last chapter
> 
> (note: the conversation between Angus and Moira would be in Gaelic. I have it in English here because 1. they both understand what is being said so their POV should reflect that; 2. No one would be able to read a thing if I put this in actual Gaelic; 3. I don't trust Google translate that much. One word or two, yes. Whole paragraphs, nope.)

Moira Wallace had seen a lot of things in her lifetime. She’d buried three stillborn children and a husband, dueled a brother-in-law for the right to remain in the place she called home, and provided a haven for a troop of Jacobite rebels sabotaging the British army. Nothing much surprised her anymore.

Especially not anything concerning her nephew, Angus MacGyver. Ever since she’d first met the boy, he’d been something of an oddity. Her sister’s only child was a quiet, sensitive boy, like his mother, but utterly unlike the rest of the harsh, hard-fighting, hard-drinking Wallace clan, and also vastly different from the cold, withdrawn MacGyver clan. He’d never seemed to belong. Which might have been why he had always spent most of his time away from the family, in the forests and moors and the barn and smithy.

Angus had always been creating things. Whether it was a whistle carved from a fallen branch or a piece of metal that he tied behind a cart pony to clear snow from paths, he’d always been looking at the most ordinary things and found ways to use them that she was sure no one else could. She remembered his father being angry when he took apart a clock that the family had inherited and used it to create a timing mechanism to turn a roasting spit evenly without anyone holding it. Few people in the family had appreciated Angus’s sometimes destructive genius.

She’d lost track of him for years when his father gave him up to the old MacGyver laird, Conall, his grandfather. Conall lived far north in the Highlands, and Moira had never had much need to remain closely tied to him. Besides, her sister’s death was a raw spot between her and that family.

But when Angus had ridden down with a band of Jacobites, she’d immediately welcomed him back. There was so much of her sister in those wide, innocent eyes, the kind heart, and the youthful enthusiasm. She’d offered him, and by extension his friends, a place to stay. She had no great love for the British, after all they had done, and taking some risks was nothing new to her.

She heard stories from the men, when they returned to rest after months spent riding, raiding, and fighting, of the things Angus was capable of. The near escapes, almost miraculous rescues, and skilled traps were nothing new to hear of, but she had been surprised that the quiet, reserved Angus was now part of a war. When she’d asked him why he was fighting, he’d told her it was for the people who couldn’t escape the war like he had by living in the north, and that he had no right to be free and safe while others suffered. It sounded so very like him.

She’d seen Angus fall in love with Nighean Kerr, only for her to break his heart when her dedication to the Scottish cause overshadowed her love for him, and led her south to act as a spy by becoming housekeeper for a British general. Angus had been unable to go with her, and the separation had broken his heart. Moira knew Nighean wrote to him in the letters she sent with information on the British plans, but she had never told Angus a word of it. He was better off without the girl. She would never choose him over her devotion to a free Scotland.

It had been thanks to Nighean, though, that she had known Angus was captured by the British. Kirke had turned Angus over to Colonel Murdoc at Fort Douglass. Murdoc’s reputation with the Jacobites was that of a cruel, ruthless man whose cunning was matched only by his brutality, and the pleasure he took in the tortures he devised. Moira had been certain she would never see her nephew again. Angus had always been stunningly successful at escaping in impossible ways, but Fort Douglass was another matter entirely.

And then Robert MacInerney had come galloping in, demanding to speak to her and claiming Angus was alive and coming back to Loch Ainsley. And that the boy had returned in the company of three _sassenachs_ , whom Robbie suspected had fooled Angus into bringing them back to the Jacobites’ hiding place.

When she saw Angus, she barely recognized him. His face was thin, his shoulders stooped, and he was limping. The clothes he was wearing looked like they belonged to someone much thicker-bodied and broader shouldered. He looked exhausted and starved and ready to shatter. Moira pushed down the feelings threatening to make themselves known. She could not be Angus’s _piuthar_ now. She needed to be the laird of Loch Ainsley and deal with the spies.

The three people, standing bound in the courtyard, were not exactly the sort of people Moira had expected. One was certainly the soldier Robbie had described, judging from the way he held himself and the firmness in his eyes when he met hers. One was a young woman, with darker skin and wild black curly hair. The third was a young man with darker skin than the woman, who seemed incredibly uncertain about what was happening.

“So these are the spies.”

“They’re not spies.” Angus stood defensively in front of the three. “They helped me escape Fort Douglass.” Robbie had told her that was what Angus claimed. She had no reason not to believe he was telling the truth as he knew it, but he had always been a person who was a bit too quick to see the good in people. It had hurt him before and it might be a problem now.

“So you would lead them here. The British know they cannot take Loch Ainsley by force, so they let you escape, win your trust, and try to learn our secrets from inside.” Angus looked startled, then frightened. She would wager that thought had barely crossed his mind if it had come up at all. “I am glad ye are alive, Angus, but I am afraid ye may have misplaced your trust.”

“We are not spies.” The soldier was speaking now. “We’re running from the army as well. Because I helped Angus escape, my commander wants to see me swing for treason. We were going to sail for France, my family and I,” he gestured to the other two and Moira wondered if they were his children by a slave woman, given the coloring, “but Angus was in no condition to travel alone, and the patrols were coming too soon for him to recover.”

“Ye expect me tae believe that a British officer,” Moira held up the soldier’s uniform coat, which Robbie had brought her as proof that the man was a spy, “helped a Highland Jacobite escape and returned him to his people from the kindness o’ his heart?”

“It’s the truth.” The girl spoke up, her eyes flashing, head held high. “He saved me from a life of slavery and brutality, even though it cost him a great deal. He’s raised me as his daughter and I could not trust him more.” Moira was suitably impressed with the girl. She had spirit.

But being impressed didn’t mean she was going to easily trust. All of this could be a ruse. “Angus, I would like to speak to ye. Here.” Head down, Angus climbed the steps to where Moira stood. She suspected a lie. Angus had been riding back; and the soldier had said he had not been fit to travel alone. Something about this seemed wrong. Either the man was lying, or there was something more seriously wrong than Angus would admit. She deliberately began to speak in Gaelic. No sense in letting these people know more than they did already. If they were spies, she needed to keep them as in the dark as possible.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Angus didn’t respond, only hung his head in shame. He reached into his _sporran_ and pulled out a small piece of metal, a buckle maybe, and twisted it back and forth through his slender fingers. He’d always done things like this when he was worried or frightened. At first it had bothered Moira, and she’d shouted at him to leave off that fidgeting and look people in the eye and pay attention. That had only made him more nervous and shaken. Now she let his nervous habits alone. “You have brought three outsiders into the heart of the Jacobite resistance here. If they are allowed to have any communication with the British again, they could expose everything, and have a legitimate reason to force me to hand over every Jacobite hiding here.”

“They do not intend to return. They’re running from the British as well. Major Dalton…Jack…because he helped me the colonel wants to have him killed, so he’s trying to leave. You heard him say that yourself.”

“Did you ever consider that their plan to leave could have been a lie?”

“Jack helped me.” She could see doubt fighting with trust in his face. “He gave me my knife to help me escape the fort, he let me take his horse when he found me, and he never handed me back over to the colonel even though he could have.” But he didn’t look completely certain.

“What else did he do?”

“It was…he didn’t…he never tried to stop the colonel. He never said a word to him. Just held me while Murdoc hit me.”

“He only helped you when he could hide it. So why would he suddenly decide to give up his entire life to get you home, when he’s barely known you a week?”

“I don’t know.” Angus stared at his feet, twisting the buckle even harder. “But he was kind. After. I think he didn’t know…he…I don’t know.”

“Angus, I understand. You want to believe people are good, and kind, and won’t abandon you. But the world is a harsh place, and it is a very harsh place for people like us now. We Scots cannot afford to trust anyone, especially not outsiders. We can barely trust our own kin.” She knew this was harsh, but sooner or later Angus was going to be hurt again, and she would rather it be her that hurt him than someone else. She could repair a damaged relationship, but if Angus trusted the wrong person again, it could be so much worse than with Nighean. He might end with a bullet in his heart rather than simply a broken heart.

He looked away, blinking, likely on the verge of tears. She hated shattering his trust like this, it felt like watching that kind, gentle boy die a little. But she would a thousand times rather have him alive to see this pain on his face than hear that he had been shot or hanged as a traitor. She looked past him to the prisoners, and then caught a glimpse of something on his shirt that made her breath catch.

There was blood, some dried, some fresh, crossing Angus’s back. Robbie had failed to tell her this detail. He’d been flogged. She felt sick at the thought of someone, likely that damned Murdoc, taking a whip to her nephew. The boy had been so gentle and tenderhearted. She’d seen him splint a swallow’s broken wing and make a brace to help a crofter’s lame son walk properly. And the British had treated him as if he were some sort of dangerous criminal.

“What have they done to you?” He tried to turn away and hide the marks, but he had to know it was no good.

“I refused to tell them where the other Jacobites were going. Colonel Murdoc wanted answers, and he was determined to get them any way he could.” Angus shivered slightly. “He beat me and used my own knife on me, and then when that failed he flogged me.” He looked away, avoiding the sympathy she knew must be rising in her eyes. “Fifty lashes.”

“How long ago?”

“A week. Possibly. I didn’t know what day it was for some time.” He twisted the broken buckle harder. “The wounds were infected, and it got worse when I escaped. I was too sick to travel, and a crofter’s family found me and took me in. And the girl there, Rebecca, came to help them care for me. She cleaned my wounds and stayed with me during the fever. If it weren’t for her I would be dead.”

Moira glanced at the girl. She’d seen a good bit of herself in the strong young woman, so unafraid to speak up for herself and her friends. Rebecca met her gaze unflinchingly.

“That was when Jack…when he started to help me.” Moira looked back at the man. The sort whose morals and duty were likely to conflict here in the Highlands. _He could take so much. But when Murdoc went too far, he decided to do what he knew was right._ People like that were dangerous. They failed to follow orders, and did things they were never supposed to. _Just like Angus always has._

“Who is the other man?”

“I never knew. I think he’s in love with Rebecca and refused to let her leave without him. I never saw him before the day we all left to come here. He is quiet, but he seems to be good-hearted.” Moira spared the young man a glance. He did seem quiet, although she could see that his hands were shaking and his breaths were coming fast. He was afraid, but trying not to show it. _Not a soldier. Just someone who is determined to hold onto what he cares about._ Now that she understood.

If, after the kind of brutal treatment he’d been given at the hands of the British, Angus still trusted these people, Moira needed to know why. What made a former army officer, a freed slave, and a…she wasn’t sure what the last fellow was, and neither was Angus, he seemed to have come from nowhere and joined up not particularly knowing what he was doing (she liked him already), as close to Angus already as any family he had ever had? If he was going to be hurt again, like he had been with Nighean, she wanted to keep these people close so she could exact punishment. And if they were trustworthy, she could use all the people like that she could find.

“You may take them to quarters here in the house. I want them somewhere I can know their whereabouts. They may not leave the estate, and I will not have them coming anywhere near the Jacobites, or asking any questions about them.”

“You will allow them to stay?”

“Until their arrangements can be made. You said they talked of sailing for France. I am sure we can find them passage on a ship.” Angus looked a bit disappointed at her clear indication she wanted them gone, sooner rather than later. _I want to know if they will leave him like everyone else has. And if they will, they need to go as soon as they can, before he grows any closer to them._ “And you need to see Catriona. The girl’s been worried sick.”

“I saw her this morning.”

“Let her clean your back. A flogging and an infection are not to be trifled with.”

“I’m healing.”

“So I can see. Angus, that is fresh blood on that shirt. You need rest and care, and you will get it if I am forced to tie you to a bed.” She could make good on that threat; despite her size her fighting skills were a thing of legend.

She watched him go speak to the _Sassenachs,_ and was startled to see how open he was with them, and how much he already seemed to trust them. Angus was not a person from whom trust was easily gained. He might like to see the best in people, but that did not mean he trusted them. She needed to know more.

She’d have harsh words with Robbie later. She knew enough about the way the Jacobites treated Angus when he rode with them to know that as long as he was capable of doing his job they had little care for his physical condition. He’d come back to Loch Ainsley with them at various times half dead of exhaustion, nearly starved, and once sick with a terrible, deep-seated cough and a raging fever that he had been trying to hide. She would like to see him valued for more than his inventive skill. And whether she liked it or not, these outsiders might be the first people she’d seen in a long time who were willing to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Matty's rather rough approach to being caring and tried to replicate it here. She's a great character and I really hope I did her justice here.


	14. Lock+Buckle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack POV

Jack hated feeling trapped. And at the moment he was locked inside a room, in a fortified building belonging to someone who had up until a few days ago been an enemy. As prisons went, the room wasn’t anything to complain about. A small bed with a straw tick mattress and wool blankets, a window-too narrow to slip out of, Jack had tried out of sheer curiosity and boredom-a fireplace and a wooden chair with a wobbly leg.

Jack hadn’t seen Rebecca and Will since Angus led them inside. He’d been the first to be given a room, and he wondered if the others were nearby. Being trapped here made him feel nervous and tense. Moira Wallace seemed like a fair woman, but she was in a difficult position. Jack wouldn’t blame her if she decided trusting him and the others was too large a risk.

It was evening when he heard a key scrape in the lock, and a young woman opened the door. “The laird has requested that ye join her at her meal.” Jack followed the woman to a large room near the center of the house. Wallace was seated at the head of a massive table, and Jack noticed that Catriona and a man and woman who must have been her parents were seated to one side of her, Angus on the other. Rebecca and Will arrived moments later, and all three were given places past the several Jacobites who were also sharing in the laird’s hospitality.

The meal was a feast the like of which Jack hadn’t seen since Christmases back in London, and despite his concern his appetite was not going to be ignored. As long as he couldn’t fit himself though the window anyhow…Will seemed as utterly unconcerned with anything but the meal as Jack felt, but Rebecca looked distinctly uncomfortable at the way she was being helped by the two aproned servant girls. Jack wondered if this kind of setting brought back unpleasant memories of the past. More than likely, helping serve meals like this had once been her responsibility. She’d helped prepare them and waited on the guests, but she had never been allowed to enjoy the result. Now she seemed unsure of herself and her position, and Jack saw her more than once help herself to a dish or take a bottle from the servant to pour herself a drink, then look slightly chagrined at the odd stares she was getting.

Jack felt like nearly everyone was watching him. He tried to return the gazes with as much confidence as he could, but after attempting to meet the dour, distrustful glare of Catriona’s father and stabbing himself in the cheek with a fork in the process, he stopped.

The Gaelic chatter around the table was rather unnerving, since Jack wasn’t sure what, if anything, was being said about him. He’d always detested social functions and found the endless streams of pointless conversation dull, but now he was straining for every word he did understand. Which was not, admittedly, much. Jack had attempted to take up Gaelic when he first got the Highland postings, thinking that if he had managed to acquire a fair mastery of French (although Betrice had always found his accent endlessly amusing), Gaelic should be simple. He had been very wrong.

Jack found himself watching Angus throughout most of the meal. The boy seemed fairly comfortable talking to Moira, but he wasn’t saying anything to the Jacobites. Angus ate like he was starving, and Jack saw Catriona watching him in slight amusement. The boy looked a bit less like a ragged foundling now. He was wearing a kilt and plaid again instead of Jack’s old clothes, and Jack recognized the MacGyver tartan pattern. He looked a bit less like a child now, but several times he looked down the table at Jack, and the youthful insecurity was still in his eyes.

When the meal was over, Jack was certain he’d be sent back to the locked room. But as he started to leave, Moira’s voice stopped him. “Ye’re goin’ nowhere until I’ve said what I mean to to ye, _Sassenach._ ” Jack halted. He wasn’t sure what the woman was going to say to him. She stepped down from the raised stone platform at the head of the table and strode over purposefully. But when she spoke, her voice wasn’t the strong, resonant one she seemed to normally use.

“This is somethin’ I find meself hard-fought to say, but I owe ye a debt, _Sassenach_ , for helpin’ Angus.” Moira’s eyes were unreadable. Jack decided it was probably wise not to react. The woman, much like Angus, would probably want her emotions not to be acknowledged. “Angus…is a good lad, but he takes risks. When I heard he’d been taken I feared I would never see the laddie again. And ye brought him home.”

When Jack began to speak, Moira raised her hand. “Nae, I’m nae done. Ye may have brought the boy home, but ye didna save him from the floggin’. Or the beatin’.” Her eyes were angry and hurt. “The laddie didna deserve any of it. And just because he was wearin’ a tartan and not yer red coat, ye let it happen.”

“I am truly sorry. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t wish I had helped Angus sooner.” Moira was digging up Jack’s darkest thoughts. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at his hands and not see them spattered with the boy’s blood.

“I know I failed Angus, but I swear to you, I will never do it again.” Jack meant that with every bone in his body. If it meant standing between the boy and Murdoc himself, Jack would do everything in his power to keep Angus from ever being damaged again.

“Nae, ye willna. Because ye’ll be sailin’ fer France as soon as I can arrange it.” Moira turned on her heel and walked away. Jack sighed. This should be a good thing. Angus was home, with his family. And Jack and Rebecca and Will could start over. But now, he felt like leaving was going to hurt Angus more than any whipping.

“Jack?” Angus was standing at his shoulder. “I hope ye don’t think she’s cruel. She’s been fightin’ a long war with your people. She doesnae trust easily.”

“She certainly wants me gone.”

“She’ll find all of ye a ship to France. She’ll take care of ye.” Angus’s voice was flat, emotionless. “It’ll be a week or more before it can be arranged. Ye’ll be needin’ to stay here.”

“We’ll be fine.” Jack wasn’t sure he would be, trapped in that tiny room. But he had no right to complain about any of this, after all Angus had endured.

“I’d like ye to…to see this place. To understand us.” Angus hesitantly placed a hand on Jack’s arm. “Catriona’s told me if try to leave she’ll break my leg so I’m forced to rest. I’m as trapped here as ye.”

“I’d like that.” 

The next morning, someone banged on Jack’s door almost before the sun rose. He rubbed sleep-heavy eyes and tried to open the door before he realized it was locked. The door clicked open a few moments later and Angus was standing there. It took a moment before Jack realized the boy was holding not a key, but the piece of buckle from the day before.

“Did you open the door…with that?”

“I can open near ‘bout any door with anything. My knife’s the best but the doors here I try new things on.” Angus smiled softly, almost as if he’d been caught in trouble. “I like to know what I can do.”

“I have never understood how you do what you do, but I think it’s amazing.” Jack had seen people who knew how to hunt, or create anything from scraps of metal, or plan battles that took advantage of terrain and enemy shortcomings. But this boy somehow mixed all of that together and then added even more. And he was a good man. Jack knew those were in precious few supply. On his good days, he hoped he was one.

“I’m going down to the stables. They’re quieter.” Jack wondered if Angus chose his favorite places based on how many people he was likely to run into in them. Given what he’d seen of the boy, probably the fewer people the better. Which meant that if Angus was choosing to spend time with Jack, that was fairly impressive.

The stables were actually hectic with activity that morning. The Jacobites were preparing to ride out for another raid. Jack wondered if they were planning on clearing that blocked pass in the hills first. He wanted to ask where they were going, try and find out whose men they were likely to engage with, but Moira had ordered him not to ask questions. If he did, he’d likely be in danger of meeting her claymore.

Angus didn’t go inside the stable. Instead, he and Jack stopped at a paddock where several horses and some cattle were grazing. Angus whistled, and a large pale chestnut mare, even bigger than Jack’s horse and with heavier hair on her legs, lifted her head and walked to the fence.

“If I’d had her the last time we rode out I wouldnae have been caught. She’s nae feared of noises or explosions.” Angus rubbed the mare’s head and slipped her a small piece of sugar he’d been holding in his hand. “She’s been mine since I saw her fightin’ the horse breaker at Conall’s estate. I got her to trust me by bein’ kind to her rather than hurtin’.” The horse rested her head on his shoulder, and he leaned against her, closing his eyes. “She come up lame before we rode out, and I didna want to hurt her worse, so I took another horse. She wasnae so calm when I set my last trap.” Angus rested a hand on his side, and Jack wondered if he’d already been injured when he arrived at Fort Douglass. Murdoc had said he captured the boy because someone who was helping him hide turned him in. Maybe he’d been there because he’d been hurt. _As if I didn’t feel like enough of a monster for helping Murdoc torture him._

Jack watched the boy speak quietly in Gaelic to the horse, his face still patched with healing bruises, his movements slow and calculated to prevent damaging his back. “I’m sorry.” Jack leaned against the fence, kicking at a patch of thistle.

“For what?” Angus glanced at him.

“For what I let them do to you.” Jack put a hand gently on Angus’s shoulder. “If I’d been half the good man I thought I was, I could have spared you all this.” His hand brushed gently over the back of Angus’s shirt.

“It’s nae your fault.” Angus said, quietly. “He would have asked another one of his men for help if ye’d refused. And I’m no fool, Jack Dalton. I knew what the risk was when I rode south. I was prepared to die.” Jack was shocked into silence by the steely courage in the boy’s eyes. “I cannae believe that I should live when so many others do not. And I would a hundred times rather it be me than some man with a family waiting for his return.”

Jack didn’t know how to respond to that. “But I saw an enemy in you.”

“As did I in ye. Ye are not to blame for that, Jack.” Angus shook his head. “This is what I hate the most about a war. People stop seeing fellow men and see an enemy. But ye, Jack, ye are nae the enemy anymore. I hope to see ye again after this is over.” Angus glanced at Jack, fingers playing restlessly with the edges of his plaid.

“And I as well.” Jack knew the likelihood of that was slim. He would probably never be able to show his face on British soil again, and it was more than likely that sooner or later Angus’s luck would run out and the boy would die in a raid, in battle, or at the end of a rope. _What have I done? I’ve turned my life upside down because I pitied a soldier fighting for a lost cause._ Maybe in France he could start over, forget all this. But he knew he was lying to himself. He’d fear for Angus’s safety for the rest of his life, and if he knew something happened to the boy, he’d blame himself for not being there. _But what else can I do?_


	15. Lye+Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca/Riley POV

Rebecca shoved another sweat and dirt stained shirt to the bottom of the washtub. Her hair was coming loose from its half-attempted bun and sticking to her sweaty cheeks, but it felt good to be outside the manor house. The last three days, split between her room and the awkward meals with the Wallace clan, had been torturous. There were only so many times one could flip and shake a straw tick, remake a bed, or attempt to braid travel-tangled hair. She’d wanted a book, but she was afraid to ask for anything more than she’d been given. And quite possibly, all the books in the library could be in a language she couldn’t decipher.

When Catriona had asked her, at breakfast, if she wanted to help with the laundry (after Rebecca used her own shirtsleeve to mop a spill of milk one of the younger children had made) Rebecca had immediately agreed. Now, even though the sun was warm on her back and her hands were stinging with the lye in the water, she was happy. It had felt wrong to be inside this house doing nothing.

Catriona inspected the back of a shirt she was scrubbing against a rock. “I think most o’ the blood is out.” It must have been the shirt Angus had been wearing. The girl’s expression shifted from sadness to curiosity when she handed Rebecca the shirt to rinse. “Angus said ye’re responsible for keepin’ him alive.”

“I only did what I thought would help. I didn’t know if it would work or not.” Rebecca looked at her arms, sleeves rolled up and baring the scars of her past. “I couldn’t just let him die and not do something.”

“I’m grateful to ye. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother and I dinna ken what I would do if I lost him.” She smiled. “Ye may be a _Sassenach_  but ye are a good person. I couldnae be there to help him, but he was in good hands.”

“How is he?” Rebecca had been concerned about the way he’d reopened his wounds after setting off the explosion for the rockfall. Several of the deeper cuts had been bleeding freely.

“He’s sore, and in more pain than he’ll admit, but he’ll live. I could barely keep him still long enough to dress the wounds. He’s always been a terrible patient. Once he fell out of a tree and broke his arm, then hid it from us all for nearly a day. Tried to splint it himself.” Rebecca thought that sounded very much like the Angus she’d grown to know. “Did he give ye much trouble? I’m sorry if he did.”

“He wasn’t able to for much of it. He was either asleep or delirious with the fever. But yes, he was stubborn after. Tried to get back on his feet well before he should have.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Catriona and lowered her voice. “Jack was helping me tend him and he said once he found him asleep on the floor after trying to get out of bed, naked.”

Catriona laughed. “That’s certainly Angus.”

“What have I done now?” Rebecca startled guiltily and looked up. Angus was coming down the path toward the two of them, limping slightly but smiling. Two of the wolfhounds from the estate were following him. Rebecca had noticed he seemed to have a gentle touch with animals.

“Only gotten your stubborn Scottish arse out of bed and then fell asleep on the floor naked as a wee bairn.” Catriona was still laughing and hearing the incident recounted in her strong accent, with the Scotch words thrown in, made Rebecca begin to laugh as well. She managed to look up long enough to catch a glimpse of Angus’s face; she hadn’t thought it was possible for someone to turn so red. The glare he gave her was completely worth taking.

“Ye told her about that?”

“Of course she did, I asked if ye’d been a stubborn fool and given her problems. Ye deserve to be laughed at for all the times ye’ve made it near impossible for me to help ye.” Catriona flung a shirt at him. “I told ye not to be out and doing things today.”

“I’m feeling well.”

“Ye’ve never been a good liar, Angus MacGyver. Now if ye’re so desperate for somethin’ to do, ye can help us with these clothes.”

“And be tortured with yer teasin’. I’d rather the floggin' any day.” But he was smiling. He started to twist the shirt to wring out the water and grimaced. Rebecca knew from painful experience that the action was straining every lash across his shoulders.

“Here, rinse those. I’ll wring them.” She traded places with Angus, and tried to keep the dogs from trampling through the half-clean things spread out on the stones to be scrubbed. Angus had rinsed no more than three things before she noticed him look down at a stick the dogs had brought him, back at the plaid in his hand, and then stand up and hurry away.

“Hah. Women’s work drove him away,” Rebecca laughed. Most men would never have even started to help, though.

“No, that’s not what he’s doing; he used to help me with laundry whenever he was looking for somethin’ to do. He’s had one of his ideas, did ye see the look on his face?” Catriona shook her head. “He’s likely thought of a way to make this easier. Did ye know he once made something from a clock that turned a spit with no one standin’ there?”

“If he can make a way to wash clothes that keeps my hands out of the water and lye, I’ll apologize for ever telling you about what a fool he made of himself.”

“Nae, don’t. He deserved that.” Catriona was still chuckling. “I’d like to have been there. He’ll nae be forgettin’ this any time soon.”

The two continued to scrub clothes and rinse them until Angus returned, carrying something in one hand.

“What is that?” It looked like a pair of smooth poles, about as thick as Rebecca’s wrist, slung inside a metal frame. A handle like the one used for turning a spit was attached to the side.

“It’ll make it easier to get the water out of the clothes.” Angus looked almost ridiculously proud of himself. “Here, I’ll show ye.” He pushed the ends of the metal frame into the ground, snatched a shirt from the rinsing tub and held it in front of the two wood bars. “Ye turn the handle, like a spit.” The poles caught the shirt and dragged it through, and Catriona dashed over to catch it before it hit the muddy ground. The cloth was flat as a folded sheet. She shook it out and held it up.

“It’s quite dry.”

“And ye’ll nae be wearin’ out yer hands and shoulders sqeezin’ them.”

“Well, since ye’ve made the thing, ye can use it. But ye’d best be puttin’ a tub there to catch them, because if ye get mud on my clean clothes ye’re washing them again yourself.” Catriona pushed the rinse tub a bit nearer to the odd machine. Rebecca shook her head and went back to her scrubbing.

When they were finished, walking back to the house together, Rebecca asked Angus if he’d seen much of Jack. She’d barely seen her own father apart from meals. She understood why Moira would prefer to keep the three of them separate, in case they’d been lying about not being spies, but she wanted to see Jack and talk to him, alone, without the prying eyes of the Jacobites on them.

“A bit. He’s well. He’s frustrated by Moira’s orders; feels trapped.” Rebecca could understand that. “I’ve been showin’ him parts of the estate. He has good plans for how to make it more defensible, if the British ever find their way here.”

“Jack’s always been a strategist.” One of the first things Rebecca had learned to enjoy doing with him was playing with small tin and lead soldiers that he arranged on the table into the formations of famous battles. He would always voluntarily take the side of the outnumbered army, and still she had never beaten him.

“He’s a good man to have on your side in a war.” Angus sounded uncertain.

“He’s a good man to have at your side anywhere. He sacrificed everything he had ever wanted to give me a better life.” Rebecca knew she was never meant to find out that the money Jack had bought her with had been the money he’d saved to marry the woman he loved. Jack had assumed she was unable to read and had left an unfinished letter to the woman, a Lady Sarah Adler, on the table one night. Rebecca had been curious and read it. Jack had not explained the circumstances, but he’d written to tell Lady Adler that he could no longer support their marriage and he would no longer court her. “When Jack decides he cares about someone, it’s not something he lets go of easily.”

“Do ye know when ye sail for France?” If she hadn’t been looking for it, she wouldn’t have heard the deep hurt in Angus’s voice or seen the pain of abandonment in his eyes.

“No. The laird was meant to arrange it. She’s said nothing. But I think she thinks that the sooner we leave Loch Ainsley, the better it will be.”

“Is that what ye think?” Rebecca didn’t know how to answer that. _I don’t want to leave. The Highlands are where I feel alive. And even if Moira doesn’t trust us, yet, you and Catriona do. I want to stay and help you, and try to keep you alive because God knows you won’t take care of yourself. But we’re outsiders, and we can never be anything else to your people. And it’s Moira who decides what’s to be done with us._

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I googled when the laundry mangle was actually invented and it was almost sixty years later than this, but I figured what the heck, it’s Mac, of course he’d create something ahead of its time.


	16. Will+Rebecca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will/Bozer POV

Will beat the edge of a wheel into round, watching sparks spatter across the flagstone outside the smithy. As it had turned out, the Loch Ainsley smith had just badly burnt his hand in an accident with the forge, and a replacement was needed. Will had offered his services immediately, and gone to work on the growing pile of damaged or broken metal stacked just inside the door.

There was still no word on when a ship for France would be prepared. Moira Wallace was a woman of few words, and while she seemed to have taken a liking to Will, allowing him the freedom to work in the smithy rather than remain in the house, he knew she would tell him as little as possible of what her plans were. He had a feeling she felt she could trust him because out of all of them, he was the one with the least interest in the whole issue. He was here not for politics, but for his devotion to Rebecca.

He'd seen very little of her in the past week and a half that they had been at Loch Ainsley. Rebecca was busy helping wherever she could, and she and Catriona had struck up a friendship. Will had seen even less of Jack, but Angus had come to the smithy nearly every day. Will was amazed at the boy’s talent for seeing more ways to repair or improve everyday things than the usual methods. He’d gone over some of the boy’s changes, such as a more efficient forge design that reached its temperature and held it with much less work on the bellows, and a method of punching a hole in metal that didn’t increase the width of the piece at that point, in his head, hoping to remember them when he started a business of his own. The vast improvements the changes made would certainly bring a good profit. A profit that would hopefully allow him and Rebecca to live comfortably and raise a family.

Will  finished with the wheel covering and concentrated on the piece of metal he’d just removed from the fire. The work he was planning on doing now was far more delicate than his usual pieces. But he wanted it to be perfect. So far, three attempts had gone wrong.

He carefully shaped the narrow piece into a fine point, then worked a narrow groove into the middle of it. His thoughts drifted while he continued. He’d always found the ring of the hammer and hiss of bellows a comforting sound. The small blade slowly took form, its edges rippled and uneven now, but slowly becoming fine and sharp. When he was finished, he would be able to refine the blade with a sharpening stone until it was as delicate and dangerous as a cat’s claw.

It was perfect for her. For Rebecca. Because she too was lovely and fierce, something beautiful that you knew instinctively to respect. He had won her trust as if she were a skittish green colt being brought for its first shoeing. Gentleness and respect had been the foundation of everything they had together, and he had learned early to value Rebecca for her fierce independence and strong spirit. She was not a woman to be made someone else’s, to become a man’s toy or pawn. She was a woman to fight alongside, to be a partner.

Rebecca had taken some time to trust Will’s intent, but when she had, he’d discovered someone he never wanted to let go of. And seeing her now, ready and willing to sacrifice everything she knew, her entire life, for the sake of doing right by a man she barely met, he was more proud of her than ever. And more afraid of losing her.

Because Rebecca was a warrior, and Will was not. His greatest battles were fought with brittle iron and lazy bellows wielding apprentices. He was helping here, true, but he felt as if he were adrift from the others. They were courageous. He had only made one choice and then been carried along by it. Angus was risking his freedom and his life daily to fight for the right to a free homeland. Jack had left his entire military career, one that could certainly have made him a general someday. Rebecca had chosen a life on the run. And Will? He had made a promise to Rebecca, and he had kept trying to keep it. He didn’t even know what he was doing here now.

The whole journey here, he’d been at war with himself. Why was he doing this? Was it fair to Rebecca to ask her to spend the rest of her life with a coward? When she learned that he was not strong, not brave, would she be disappointed?  

Until a few weeks ago, Will had been confident in his love for Rebecca and her love for him. He had loved every moment they spent together, their shared laughter and her smiles and his stories of problem horses and problem apprentices. They had been friends and he had wanted that friendship to go on forever. Love had been easy at Fort Douglass, when the most danger Will faced was a skittish horse’s hooves. But now life as a fugitive had torn away the cover he was hiding beneath and shown him his own true face. That of a coward.

He carefully added a small engraving, a delicate R on either side of the blade. Rebecca had said, several days ago, that she’d seen Catriona carrying a small knife like the one Angus had in his boot, but in her bodice. She’d said Catriona had told her it was wise for any woman, especially one who would be traveling, to have a protection like that. Will was determined to make her a fine blade. Perhaps he was not brave enough to protect her but he could make her a way to defend herself.

He had to tell her, he had to let her make her choice knowing full well that he was not a man who in any way deserved to come near a woman like her.

He set the knife aside. There was one more piece he needed, but he was no carver. For that, he had help. It wasn’t long before someone opened the smithy door and stepped inside. Will didn’t have to look up to recognize the steps that had become familiar over the past week. Angus. “I think I’ve finally done it.” Will held up the finished blade.

“It looks beautiful.” Angus handed him a small handle made of deerhorn, carved delicately in the shape of a thistle blossom. “I think this should do.”

“She’ll love it.” Will fitted the blade into the handle carefully, wincing when the metal sliced a thin gash in his thumb. Now he had to find her.

It wasn’t too hard to track Rebecca down. She and Catriona were in the garden, pulling weeds from the rows of plants. Rebecca was smiling, laughing, and she was so beautiful Will wanted to turn his back and walk away because he didn’t deserve her, and he didn’t want to tell her the truth, because the truth was that he was selfish and he wanted to love her even if he shouldn’t.

And then she looked up and saw him and he couldn’t run away, and he couldn’t hide the knife and all of a sudden he saw every imperfection in the blade, and the mess he’d made of one of the Rs, and he didn’t want to give her something that wasn’t as perfect as she was. But it was too late.

 “You said you wanted a knife.” He held it out, staring at the ground. He hadn’t wanted her to see.

“Thank you! Will, this is perfect.” She slid the knife into her bodice.

He had to speak up now or he would lose his nerve. “I won’t be coming with you to France.”

“Will?” Her face was a painful mixture of shock, sadness, and betrayal.

“I’ll stay on here. They need a smith, and even when their own heals his hands may never be the same.”

“You promised to stay.”

“I can’t ask you to spend your life with a coward. Rebecca, I’m not a brave man. When I found out we were leaving Fort Douglass for good I was terrified. When I thought the patrol would catch us at the pass, I wanted to run away and hide. When we met the Jacobites, I hoped they’d see Jack as the threat and not me. I’ve never been able to get the better of my fear. The bravest thing I ever did was tell you I loved you.”

Rebecca gripped both his hands tightly. “That is the only kind of courage I’m asking you to have, Will.” Her eyes never left his. “You are not a warrior, and do you think I didn’t see it? But you are courageous in love. You let people see your heart. And that is worth more than all the battlefield victories in the world.”

“You would want me?” He knew how shameful it sounded, but she should know how weak he was.

“Will, I would want you every day for the rest of my life.”

“I know it’s not a ring, but Rebecca, would you marry me?” He’d asked Jack’s permission when he’d seen the man at a meal. He’d felt he ought to, even though Jack had practically ordered him and Rebecca to go to France and make a life for themselves there. Just in case he ever got the nerve to ask.

“Oh Will. Yes! Yes.” She threw her arms around his shoulders, and her face was glowing. And Will was the happiest man on earth. It didn’t matter if he was a coward, because he had Rebecca, and she could be brave enough for the both of them.


	17. Ship+Raid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather short Jack POV

Jack found himself watching almost desperately from his window as the Jacobites cantered their horses out of the Loch Ainsley yard. He could see Angus’s distinctive tartan in the middle of them. Jack understood exactly why he wasn’t trusted to join the raiders, but it still hurt watching Angus ride off without him. Especially when the boy was still injured.

It wasn’t as if Angus was incapable of working. Just a day ago, after a storm collapsed several trees near the estate, Jack had offered to help clean the damage, and to repair a section of the outer wall one of the massive oaks had destroyed. Moira had agreed that they could use everyone willing to work. Jack had been completely unsurprised to see Angus joining the other men, moving stiffly but confidently. He was sure the boy would catch hell from Catriona later for it, but Angus was probably as tired of sitting about doing nothing as Jack was.

He’d been properly shocked when, after some of the men cut the tree trunk and the more massive branches into lengths, Angus lifted a long section as if it were nothing and carried it to the side where a group were cutting the pieces into firewood. He’d done it twice more before Jack was able to ask him about it.

“How are you lifting those pieces, laddie? They’re ten times the size of you!” Angus hadn’t struck him as particularly strong. Tough and wiry, yes, but not the sort to be casually lifting massive sections of a tree and carrying them about like they were twigs.

“I’ve been learnin’ to toss a caber since I was ten years old. It’s old habit.” The boy’s face twitched with pain occasionally, and Jack noticed he was moving more slowly than most of the others, but he was nonetheless impressed. Another thing to add to his rapidly growing list of things about Angus MacGyver that would probably never stop surprising him.

He watched until the horsemen were a single speck on the horizon. The knock at the door that came only moments later startled him so badly that had the window been any larger, jack was fairly certain he would have fallen out of it.

“The laird would like to see ye.”

Moira looked tired when Jack walked into the sitting room, and he wondered if she was worried about Angus. For all her harshness, she had an undeniable soft heart. And seeing the boy ride away doing the same thing that had gotten him captured and tortured barely a month ago had to be heartbreaking. But she was letting none of it show, at least not in a way that most people would notice. But Jack had plenty of experience hiding true feelings.

“There’s a ship sailing in four days for Calais. The captain is a friend of mine, and he’s agreed to give you safe passage.” Jack knew that from Loch Ainsley the coast could be reached in one day’s hard ride. Which meant he had very little time left. And very likely he would leave before Angus was able to return.

“Thank you, Laird Wallace.” Jack turned, feeling as if the weight of the world had collapsed on him. He turned back. “Will you please tell Angus…” _Will you tell him I said goodbye? Will you tell him I’m no better than everyone else who’s abandoned this wonderful, kind, innocent boy? Will you tell him Jack Dalton failed him again?_ “that I hope to see him when this is all over?”

“I will.” He could have been mistaken, but Moira’s voice seemed to tremble. And then he closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's short...


	18. Cliff+Pistol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac POV
> 
> (adding a slight warning here for anyone who's afraid of heights. Also very brief mention of suicidal thoughts)

Angus couldn’t focus. That was normal. He was always thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else, it was a survival skill. But this time he wasn’t thinking ahead. He was thinking about what was behind him. He’d heard Moira talking to the others that morning; a ship was in port and preparing to sail for Calais. He knew that would be where Jack and the others would be. And Fort Andrews, their destination, was at least two days’ ride away. Jack would be gone before Angus returned. He’d known Jack was leaving, so why did it hurt?

He was too far lost in his own thoughts to notice the change in direction until he realized they were heading north instead of east. He leaned over to Duncan Wallace, hoping he wouldn’t sound like an utter fool for missing the plan.

“I thought we were riding to Fort Andrews.”

“There’s been a change of plan.” Robbie MacInerney said sharply. “We’re only going to the Fort Cameron pass.”

“That’s barely a half day’s ride. Why did ye tell us…”

“So those spies would have no idea what we were doin’.” Robbie kicked his horse to a canter. “We’ll be needin’ tae pick up the pace. We need to reach the pass before Davis.”

“What?” Angus knew he’d been drifting out of the conversation, but he genuinely had no idea what was happening now.

“General Davis oversees plans for invasion. The fact that he’s coming here means the British are planning more than random patrols and chasing rebels. They’re going to be coming for blood, and plenty of it. But if we can stop Davis from reaching Fort Cameron, we might be able to stall for time. Prepare for them to come, and give them a Highland welcome they won’t soon forget.”

It didn’t take long to reach the pass, not with the horses running. The men halted at a narrow section of the road, and dismounted, leading their horses further up the trail. Robbie pulled Angus aside. “I need ye to do somethin’ that will make those rocks unstable, there.” He pointed to a section at the edge of the path. “They’ll be needin’ to crumble all the way into the road when the horses hit them.”

“Ye want…ye want me to set a trap to kill Davis.” Angus froze, fingers twisting in the horse’s mane. _This isn’t what I do. I told ye all a long time ago, I would help but I wouldnae kill._

Robbie grabbed him by the shoulder, so hard his fingers dug into the healing wounds and almost made Angus scream. “Listen to me, laddie, this is the chance of a lifetime. We can strike a blow that will make them understand we are not to be trifled with.”

Angus searched desperately for a reason to avoid killing the soldiers. “But if we kill them, we could drive them to desperation. They could come for us.”

“They will come, someday. They will never allow us to be free.” Robbie’s eyes were wild. “We are strong, now. Even if they do come for us, we can defend our land. If we wait until they build more forts, bring more troops, we will never have a chance.”

“I’ve never killed.”

“This is war, Angus. Whose side are ye on?” Robbie slammed a fist into his cheek and the hit was so unexpected Angus fell, gripping his jaw and cringing away from the angry Jacobite and the edge of the cliff soaring into nothingness. The height was making his head spin, it was such a long way down and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t, he couldn’t think... The man’s hand was on his claymore, and his boot was against Angus’s side, keeping him from rolling away from that edge, so far down, he didn’t want to die that way. “What did those _sassenachs_ tell ye? What did they make ye believe about them?” Robbie gripped the collar of Angus’s shirt and tore it, revealing the still angry scars covering his back. “After all they’ve done to ye, ye don’t think every last one of them deserves to burn?”

 _No. No, they’re as trapped in this war as we are. Their leaders decide what happens and the men all pay the price. Just like we do. There’s no difference, nae really._ “They will retaliate.” He was scrambling desperately for any idea, anything to make Robbie back off, to let him get away from that ledge.

“Not if ye do as ye’re told. Ye can make anythin’ look like an accident.”

“I willnae. I cannae kill those men when they dinnae even know we’re there. It’s nae fair. This isn’t even war. This is slaughter. This is shootin’ a bird with a broken wing.” Angus felt sick. He hated everything about this plan. The ambush, the death, the threats.

“Ye think they’re like that man ye think is yer friend. That major doesn’t care about you. He wanted information. He is a spy, no matter what he claims. And he’ll never even make it to that Calais ship. Once he leaves the estate, he’s mine.” The man cocked his pistol. “And I’m thinkin' ye may need to join him.”

Angus took a gasping breath. “I won’t kill those men.” He tried to force his hands to stop shaking. If he could distract Robbie long enough, if he could find something to get the gun away from him…But he was panicking, he couldn’t think, he could barely even see. Such a long way to fall.

“I don’t believe the girl is a spy. Or the farrier. But there is no sense in taking the chance, is there, Angus?”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Ye do it, or we will. It’s the stone or a bullet. One way or another Davis is going to die today. And ye have the choice of whether the British know it was us.” Angus leaned his head in his hands, forcing back tears of anger and frustration. He wanted to shove Robbie over that cliff edge, but if he did what would the others do? They would kill him and then Davis and then Jack and Will and Rebecca.

“I-I’ll do it.” He hated himself for saying it. But Davis would die no matter what he did and maybe he could save the others. If Robbie let him live, if he went back, he could warn Jack, he could stop this. Robbie would kill him but Jack would live. Jack had to live.

He had to go over the ledge to move the rocks that would make the road crumble. He couldn’t stop shaking, he hated this, and shaking made his grip weak and if he lost his grip he'd fall. He hated being so far above the ground, it didn’t feel safe. His legs were shaking and he couldn't breathe and he had to move those rocks but he didn't want to let go of the ones he was holding, and what if he moved the wrong one and the whole thing fell now and he fell too? He couldn't move, he felt frozen. He’d fallen out of trees and it _hurt_ , and he didn’t want to fall off this mountain.

He didn’t tell anyone when he’d moved enough rocks that the road would crumble. He didn’t want them to know they could knock him off the edge, send him falling helplessly down into nothing, and their plan would still work. He pulled himself back up the cliff and onto the road and away from the edge, and it hurt like hell but he didn’t trust their hands not to let go if he asked for help. He wanted to lie down and curl up and not think about  _so far down, can't let go, can't fall, need to stop shaking_  but if he was on the ground they could hurt him, they could push him over that edge. He couldn't lie down. He had to stand up, had to get away from the cliff. 

They hid above the narrow section of the road, and Angus could feel Robbie behind him. The man was holding his pistol tightly against Angus’s back. “If ye’ve done yer job, laddie, I’ll know yer for us. But if they ride through, I’ll be puttin’ the first bullet in Davis’s head and the second in yers.”

He could hear hoofbeats in the distance, and then five riders came around the bend of the road. Davis and his escort. He could see the general, in the middle, plump and bald and sweating in his red coat. His own eyes were stinging from dust and grit and fear and rage. The red coats blurred together until they looked like a sea of blood. And then hooves struck unstable rock and a horse screamed.

He couldn’t look away, not from the crumbling stone and the panicking horses and the falling red bodies. He knew he was too far away to see their faces but it didn’t matter because he saw Jack’s face, and Jack was falling and he looked tired and sad and betrayed. _You killed them all._ Colonel Murdoc’s laughter, his father’s angry shouts. _You couldn’t run away from what you are. You can’t stop the death you cause._

“I suppose yer with us after all, laddie.” And then he did throw up. _I just killed five men. Who never saw it coming._

“Keep quiet about what I told ye, and the dark ones, they live. They’re nae spies, I can see it in them. But warn the soldier, and they all die. Every single one.” Angus swallowed the acrid taste in his throat. _Jack is smart. If I tell him he’ll find a way to escape. I can’t let him die. Not more blood on my hands._ He stood, shaking, looking over the edge of the cliff into the chasm now punctuated with specks of crimson far below. _Maybe I should have let_ _go. Because I've already fallen._


	19. Fists+Straw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack POV

Jack was loading the last of the saddlebags onto the horses when he heard riders coming into the yard. It couldn’t be the Jacobites, they’d left only two days ago, and he knew enough about their usual tactics, after pursuing them for months, to know they spent weeks traveling around the country, raiding supply routes and harassing troops. They didn’t often return to their home, probably so they couldn’t easily be traced back to Loch Ainsley. This was likely a delegation from another clan, come to talk to the laird about something.

Still, the hoofbeats reminded him he was leaving without saying a thing to Angus. He’d wanted to wait, but it seemed best to be leaving. Moira would be happier when they were gone, and he’d rather not miss the ship. Sailing could be unpredictable, and he didn’t want weather or the threat of a British search to send the ship out of port early, without them.

Will and Rebecca were near inseparable. He’d known the farrier planned to ask for Rebecca’s hand, and he’d given his blessing in a heartbeat. Will was a good man, and he made Rebecca happy. He seemed a bit sorry to be leaving Loch Ainsley; he’d quickly become a fixture with his smithing skill and he’d gone on and on to Jack about things that were far over Jack’s knowledge, but that he vaguely understood had to do with improvements Angus had made to standard blacksmithing tools and practices. Will was going to miss having all this at his disposal. But if Jack knew him, he’d quickly become one of the most successful blacksmiths in France, with the knowledge he’d been soaking up these past few weeks.

The horses from the yard came around in front of the stable, and Jack stepped back in shock at the sight of the same men he’d watched ride out just a day ago. They dismounted, and the way Angus flinched wasn’t lost on Jack’s observation. Neither was the clearly visible tear in the back of his shirt, half hidden by his plaid wrapped around his shoulders, but still showing the shiny, healing scars. Jack flinched, just another reminder of how many times he’d failed Angus. _What am I doing, riding away like this? But this is where he belongs. I shouldn’t assume he wants me to stay when it’s me that wants to hold onto him. I’m just an old fool who gets too attached._

But he needed to talk to the boy, needed to be sure he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life. Because something was wrong. Angus didn’t act like he was home. Since they’d come back to Loch Ainsley, he’d spent at least as much time with Jack as he had with his own kin, or the Jacobite riders. Angus was acting as if he didn’t belong here.

Jack pushed his way through the crowd of men and horses, ignoring the angry stares from the Jacobites he jostled. _Hold onto your kilts, after today you won’t need to deal with having a_ Sassenach _around anymore._

“Angus?”

The boy startled, dropping the reins he was tying to the fence. “Jack!” He quickly looked down, eyes locked on the patches of grass spiking through the flagstones. He was shaking, now that Jack was close enough to see, and his breathing was forced and ragged. _What happened to him?_

“I wanted to tell you we’re riding out for the ship today.” He felt horrible about this. There was something wrong. He didn’t know what, but if he left now, he had the feeling something was going to happen. Something very, very bad.

“Jack…” _I’m just imagining things. I’m trying to hold onto him. Maybe he didn’t want to say goodbye; maybe he would have preferred I was gone without him having to face it._

“You take care now.” He tried to put a hand on Angus’s shoulder and the boy flinched.

“Angus? What’s going on?” This wasn’t just the reaction of someone who didn’t like goodbyes. This was fear and panic and something else too.

“You should stay away from me.” Angus’s voice was rough with grief and self-loathing.

“What?” Jack didn’t like the sound of this. He’d heard this boy say a lot of strange things, but he’d never sounded like _he_  was the reason Jack shouldn’t be near him. It had always been that he was afraid of Jack, which was understandable. Now it sounded like he was afraid of himself. “What do you mean by that, laddie?”

He didn’t meet Jack’s eyes. He looked sick. He glanced at the Jacobites, still talking rapidly in Gaelic, then back at the ground. “What I did yesterday…I killed five men. Five British soldiers. They could have been you, Jack.”

“It’s war.” Jack didn’t expect to see Angus cower at that. The boy cringed, arms wrapping around his body. “Angus, are you alright, laddie?”

“Don’t leave.” It was so quiet, so broken, that Jack almost missed it. But he didn’t. And for the second time, all his plans fell away in the face of this kind, broken, gentle, lost boy.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He ached to wrap his arms around Angus, to give him the kind of accepting family the boy had been without for so long. But the way he was shaking, cowering, looking over his shoulder, told Jack that touch would be a bad idea now. “I’m staying right here.” He didn’t know how, but he would convince Moira. He realized he’d been waiting for this the whole time. It was why he hadn’t left yesterday, why he’d packed his few belongings as slowly as possible, why he’d deliberately spooked his own high-strung horse so she’d take and extra hour to calm and saddle. He needed Angus to ask him to stay.

Angus didn’t look any bit reassured. His voice still carried a desperate shudder. “Nae, ye dinna understand. They’re going to kill ye.” The boy was shaking even harder now, and staring at one of the Jacobites, the one who’d found them after the rockslide when they crossed into the Wallace lands.

“What?”

“Robbie MacInerney. He doesnae believe ye’re nae a spy. He’s plannin’ tae offer Moira to escort you across Wallace land to the coast. And then he’ll kill ye. He said if I didnae tell ye, he’d nae hurt Will or Rebecca.”

“And if you did, he’d kill you too.” Jack’s fists were clenched, a fire as hot as the forge burning through his veins. _He’s not safe even with the people who call themselves his kin and his friends._

“Ye need to leave now. Ye need to go. He came back so soon so he could catch ye before ye left.”

Jack wanted nothing more than to mount up and take Angus with them and ride away, find somewhere safe, where Angus wouldn’t be treated like a traitor and a tool by everyone around him. But they couldn’t run from both the Scots and the British. If both sides of this war wanted them dead, they didn’t stand a chance, not even with Angus’s skills.

Their one chance left was Moira Wallace. Jack didn’t know much about her, but she seemed fair. And he was certain she’d never allow her nephew’s life to be sacrificed for a cause. If he could get her on his side, tell her what happened…She might not do a thing for Jack, but she would want to help Angus. He was sure of it.

“Moira knew nothing of this, you’re sure?”

Angus nodded. “Robbie knew she’d never agree to kill ye after she gave her word. He was plannin’ tae lie to her. About everythin’.”

“Then we need to tell her the truth. She’ll believe you. And none of us will need to run.”

Angus looked up hopefully, and Jack held back a shocked curse. The boy hadn’t just been avoiding Jack’s gaze because he was ashamed of what he’d done. His whole cheek was purple and blue.

“Did he do this to you?” The noncommittal mumble was all the answer Jack needed. He didn’t care anymore about angering anyone. _No one should lay a hand on that boy again. Never._ He didn’t really feel what he was doing, it was all instinct now. In two steps he was across the yard, in another moment he’d landed a stinging blow that might have cracked some bones in his hand on the Jacobite monster’s face, and the next he had one arm wrapped around the man’s throat while the rest of the Jacobites had their pistols pointed at him.

“Damn you!” Jack could feel the Jacobite gasping for breath.

“Jack! No!” He glanced up to see Angus running toward him. Despite everything the boy didn’t want to see more death. And if Jack killed this man in spite of that, he was sure Angus would think it was his fault for telling Jack the truth. He relaxed his hold and the man drew a shuddering breath.

“What in the name of all holy is happening here?” Moira’s voice cut the shouting and curses. “Dalton! MacInerney!” She was standing on the steps. “What is the patrol doing here? You were sent to Fort Andrews.”

“We had an opportunity,” another man muttered. “Davis was traveling to Fort Cameron. We stopped him.”

“Tell her everything,” Jack snarled, arm still across the other man’s throat. “Or I swear I’ll snap his neck.”

“Tell me what?”

“This man is insane!” Jack’s captive choked out. “He’s trying to kill me because he thinks I think he’s a spy.”

“Robbie, ye’re a lyin’ bastard,” Catriona snapped. She had come up behind Angus and was gripping his hand tightly. “Moira, he’s responsible for this.” Angus lifted his head, showing the bruise stretching across his face. Jack saw the woman’s face turn stony.

“And General Davis is dead, and it’s my fault.” Angus said.

“Nae, it isnae.” One of the other Jacobites spoke up, a shortish, balding man. “I saw what happened. We turned off from Fort Andrews yesterday morning, shortly after we left. MacInerney said he’d heard Davis was going north, and that he was likely planning for a full scale invasion. He said we had a chance tae stop him. We reached the pass on the Fort Cameron road and Robbie said he wasnae only plannin’ tae stop Davis, but tae kill him.” Jack saw a surge of anger in Moira’s face. This was not what she had wanted, and it appeared Robbie had been planning to hide the whole thing from her, judging by the look of betrayal on his face. “He said MacGyver could make it look like an accident. We all knew the laddie wasnae a killer, but Robbie didn’t care. When Angus refused, Robbie started pushin’ him about. Thought he would throw the laddie right off the cliff.” Jack heard both Rebecca and Will’s angry muttering behind him. “Finally Angus did what Robbie wanted. He loosened the stone along the pass trail so when the horses came through they fell.”

Jack looked at Angus, who’d gone paler and paler the whole time. There was something else, something more to this than Robbie’s threat that this Jacobite had known about. And it seemed Moira could see it too.

“Angus, what did he do to ye?”

“He…he told me if I didnae do it, he’d shoot Davis himself.” Angus fumbled with his fingers, with nothing to fix, nothing for his fingers to do, he looked lost and frightened. His next words were lower. “And he said he’d kill the _Sassenachs_.”

Jack understood the hesitation. Angus had chosen the only thing he could have, but he must still feel as if it sounded like he’d chosen Jack and the others over his own people. _He was trying to save us. And he had to kill to do it._ Jack could see the deep brokenness in Angus’s eyes. As hard as he was trying not to lose control, not now, not here, he was shattering. Jack wanted to kill Robbie for breaking this boy, for taking away that light in his eyes, that hope. _The one thing he’ll never forgive himself for._ The boy would carry that weight around the rest of his life; Jack knew what it was to take a life and live with it. Some soldiers said it got easier. They were either heartless or lying.

“And he was planning to kill us in any case,” Jack said. “Tell her, Robbie.” He released his grip enough that the man was able to speak. “And if you lie I’ll break your neck.” He nodded slightly to Angus, and the boy nodded back. He’d let Jack know if anything Robbie said was different than his threats.

“I-I was going to tell ye that I would take them tae the coast. Make sure they caused no trouble. And once we were well gone,” He gasped for air, “I would put a bullet in all three.”

“You would kill people we welcomed as guests.” Moira’s voice was cold steel.

“They cannae be trusted! They’ve seen this place, they’ve seen us.” The man’s eyes were wild.

“Dalton, let him go.” Jack did as the woman asked, and Robbie collapsed, coughing. “MacInerney, if I see your face again I will not hesitate to remove your head.” Moira’s face was pale. “And I will find out who else was planning this with you, and I want them gone as well.” Jack didn’t really want to know what was going through the woman’s head. He probably would be doing the same if it were up to him.

He stepped back, then looked at Moira. “Laird Wallace, I’m very sorry for the trouble.”

“Ye are not the problem here, _Sassenach._ ” The word didn’t sound like a threat anymore. It sounded almost relieved. As if she trusted Jack more than these Scots. After what the men had done to Angus, and what they’d forced him to do, it was little wonder. _I’m surprised she hasn’t killed them, for hurting her nephew and forcing him to kill._ He needed to find Angus, to talk to him, because his eyes, his eyes had been those of someone still on that cliff, still trapped on a ledge. He looked at where the boy had been, but he saw only Catriona. She pointed wordlessly to the stable.

“I’d like to talk to him,” Jack thought it might be best to ask permission from Moira first.

“Of course. I’ll come wi’ ye.” She scanned the crowd of Jacobites. “Duncan, Colum, I know ye. Make sure these men are gone when I come back, or I cannae answer for the consequences.” She turned on her heel.

Jack walked in silence next to the woman. Finally, he glanced at her and he saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. “What did I let them do to him?” she whispered. “I thought he was safe.”

Jack understood. She was just another person like him, someone who’d found a family that wasn’t strictly blood, and was trying to do anything to protect them. She clearly had more restraint than Jack, because if anyone had done half of this to Rebecca, Jack would have killed them, consequences and alliances be damned. But Moira was fighting a lot of battles, and she had to choose them carefully. That didn’t mean this wasn’t one of the hardest things she’d ever felt. This wasn’t the laird of Loch Ainsley he was talking to. This was a woman who’d watched her child be broken. “It wasn’t your fault. They lied to you, maybe for a long time. You couldn’t have known.”

“I could have seen it. I knew what was happening to Angus. But God help me, I thought it was his own choice. I kenned he was harsh with himself. But all this time, they were so cruel.” A single tear slid down her face, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. “They nearly killed him. And he’ll never be the same.”

“But he can heal.” Jack wanted to tell her what he was thinking. He wanted to tell her that he was not leaving, never, because he was going to stay until the light came back in Angus’s eyes and he learned to live with what he’d done. And then he’d stay after, because this was his family, and this was where he belonged, _Sassenach_ or no. But this wasn’t the time for bargaining and arguing a point. Angus needed them.

Moira was the one who found him, huddled in the back of an empty stall. He was alternately sobbing and retching, and Jack could smell the vomit from the door. Regardless, he and Moira stepped inside and sat down, one on each side of Angus. He glanced at them both, then back to the floor.

“I killed them.” Angus was shaking, soft sobs racking through him. “It was my fault. And they died.”

Moira threaded her fingers into Angus’s; he held on as if she were the only solid thing in the world. “Robbie would have killed Davis if you hadnae.”

“But then it would have been him.”

“You’re not a monster. There was nothing else you could have done. Angus, you saved us.” Jack held the boy close, arms wrapped tightly around thin, fragile shoulders. And now Angus leaned into him like there were two solid things in his world. _We're a strange family, but we are a family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I have over 1000 views of this! I wrote it as a fun random thing and it got so huge. Thank you to everyone who's read this. And commented. And Kudosed. if that's a word.


	20. End+Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack POV

_Three Months Later_ …

Jack didn’t even bother to wipe away the steady stream of tears running down his cheeks. Rebecca was beautiful. She and Catriona were standing on the doorstep, waiting. Will and the others were inside the estate’s chapel already.

When Will and Rebecca had told Moira they wanted their wedding to follow Scottish tradition rather than English, the woman had been a bit startled but accepted. It was just another proof of the way Jack’s family was beginning to settle in at Loch Ainsley.

Catriona’s mother had sewn Rebecca’s dress, claiming every woman deserved to be treated as a queen on her wedding day. And Rebecca was radiant. She was smiling, hopeful and bright and excited, and Jack didn’t want to ruin that for her by letting her know he was shattering.

She hugged him when he reached the steps, and she held on for far too long. “You should let go, you’ll get my tears on your dress,” he tried to laugh but it didn’t sound right.

“Jack.” She let go. “Thank you. For everything.” She was crying too, but it was mixed in with that joyous smile. The only way Jack was okay with any of this was that he knew she was going to be happy.

He led her into the chapel. The village kirk's minister was there, a cheerful man whom Jack had met several times over a pint in the town. Jack had started to fit in here, and despite the way the local people had avoided him at first, he’d made fast friends. It wasn’t too hard for Jack to find something in common with people with rough edges, good hearts, and damned good whiskey.

Jack released Rebecca’s hand so Will could take it, and she rested her hand on his arm and kissed his cheek. “I love you, father.” Damnit, now he was crying far too much to hide. Moira would be certain to give him grief about that. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d stopped being “ _sasssenach”_ or “Dalton” to her and become Jack. All he knew was that one day she’d apologized for his utter ignorance of Scottish custom to a visiting laird by saying, “You’ll need to be forgivin’ Jack, he was raised by the heathen British so he has nae sense of common decency.” And then smiled at him. He was never sure if she was fond of him, or frustrated by him, but in any case, she seemed content.

Angus was standing next to Will. He looked happy, and there was a genuine smile in his face and eyes. That was rarer to come by now than it used to be.

Jack couldn’t quite call Angus a boy any more. The innocent, open-hearted, playful boy he’d seen glimpses of at first was gone now. There was a man in his place, someone who’d seen and done things he could never be free of. Jack couldn’t help wishing Angus hadn’t had to grow up this way, but he couldn’t be prouder of the man he was becoming if Angus was his own blood son. It had been a long, hard road to get here, but as much as Jack was letting go of one child, he’d taken another under his wing.

He’d been there for Angus when the nightmares struck, when he thought he was back in the Fort Douglass yard or on that cliff. He’d reassured him every time he tried to push Jack away, every time he’d told Jack he was dangerous, or a killer. Jack was glad MacInerney was long gone, because as much as he’d wanted to kill the man in the heat of the moment that day he found out the truth, he wanted to kill him even more every night he watched Angus flinch away from the hands trying to comfort him, or look at Jack with those broken eyes, believing he was ruined beyond repair. It had taken a long time to convince Angus that what happened that day wasn’t his fault. Even longer for him to want to start building things again. For weeks he’d refused to touch anything that he might be able to make into something new. He’d actually used the proper keys on doors, which was more disconcerting than Jack would have admitted.

Angus had spent far too much time indoors, hidden away in his room, with books or alone with his thoughts. Rebecca had had to make good on her long-ago threats to force him to eat, and even so he’d been even thinner than when Jack had first seen him, pale and fragile with too-visible bones and hollowed cheeks.  

And then one day Will had burst into the room where Angus was reading and Jack was pretending to, saying the forge was cracked and he was afraid the whole smithy was about to catch fire, and Jack had watched as Angus seemed to forget that anything had ever been wrong and rush outside to help. And then stayed in the smithy for five hours because Will kept asking him questions and trying to get his help fixing all the random odd things he’d built that Will had no idea how to operate.

It hadn’t been easy from there, not by any means, but it had started to get better. Jack had spent a lot of time with Angus the past few months, whether it was helping him put together more of those crazy inventions that Jack _still_ didn’t understand and probably never would, or riding out together and spending hours sitting in silence fishing at the river or just watching the sheep graze. And somewhere in there, Angus had started to really trust them. Jack had seen him become more and more comfortable around himself and Rebecca and Will.

He never let himself dwell too much on his own nightmares. On seeing himself and not Colonel  Murdoc holding the whip, slashing Angus’s back to ribbons. Watching Robbie MacInerney push Angus over the side of a cliff, too late to catch him. It hadn’t happened, and Jack had to let it go. The past was the past. He hadn’t been there for Angus when he needed him before, but he was here now and that had to be good enough.

And when he heard Will and Rebecca recite not the marriage vows Jack had heard all his life, but the English version of a traditional Gaelic promise, he knew they were home. “You are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give you my body, that we two may be one. I give you my spirit, ‘til our life shall be done. You are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” When Will kissed her, Jack finally let himself break down.

He sat with Moira during the festivities after the wedding. Rebecca had forced him to dance one of those wildly energetic Highland reels, and he was worn out. His legs felt twisted into unnatural shapes. He didn’t know how the Scots did that in kilts.

Moira was cheerful, watching the young couple dance. “They’ll have many a good year together, I believe.” She turned to Jack. “I’m sorry to talk about less happy things, but a rider came to Loch Ainsley this mornin’. He told me MacInerney and his band of rogues have killed again. This time there was no bother to hide that it was deliberate.”

Jack knew what that meant. “The British will be looking for blood for blood. They’ll start increasing troops and searching villages.”

“We’ll need to prepare.” Even the well-defended Wallace lands might not be safe now.

“What’s wrong?” Angus had come and sat near them. He looked a bit tired; still recovering from the way he’d nearly starved himself after Davis’s death.

Moira’s eyes were sympathetic, but she wasn’t one to hide the truth to spare feelings. “MacInerney’s men have killed again, and the British will know it was Jacobite doings.” Angus looked down at the thin wire he was twisting in his fingers.

“I could help defend us.”

“No one is asking you to do that.” Jack didn’t want to see Angus force himself to relive his worst nightmares because he felt obligated.

“I need to protect my family.” He glanced out at Will and Rebecca, smiling and laughing among the Wallace clan members.

“What if we did things your way?” Jack suddenly turned to Moira. “I think…”

“Ha. Thinking, Jack? Might be best ye didnae say that out loud.”

“I have a plan. I know the British. Angus knows the Jacobites. What if we went out and stopped this from getting worse?”

“What are ye sayin’?” Moira looked interested.

“Angus and I will ride with any of your people willing to go. We’ll get ahead of MacInerney’s men, and outthink the British, and keep them from meeting up again, and keep either of them from coming back to Loch Ainsley. And we won’t need to kill with the things Angus can think of.”

“It could work.” Angus held up the wire, he’d bent it into the shape of a bird. A phoenix. “I think we’d stand a chance. And we cannae just sit here and wait for the war to come to us.”

“I’m with you.” Will must have seen them talking. He and Rebecca were standing in front of the others. “I’ll work the forge here and make whatever Angus needs, and then ride with you to help him. I think I can learn to help you make these things, and it would be better with two of us.” Angus nodded. Jack had seen the two of them working together; Will was right. Jack didn’t have a clue how to do this, and probably would do more harm than good. Will was starting to think the way Angus did.

“Me too.” Rebecca was not going to take no for an answer, Jack could see it in her stance. “I made it all the way here with you, and you three are going to need someone who can patch you up because God knows you’ll never take care of yourselves. Don’t argue with me, I know all three of you too well.” Jack could see Catriona making her way over, probably she was of the same opinion as Rebecca about their chances of survival if left to themselves.

Murdoc was still out there. Robbie MacInerney and his band of violent warmongers were still out there. But Jack had the feeling that together, he and Angus and Will and Rebecca would find a way to survive.

Jack lifted a glass from the table. “To the phoenix. May we all rise from the fires of the past stronger than we ever were.” He looked around the table. Moira, courageous and unwilling to let anything stand in her way, no matter who said she couldn’t do it. Will, quiet and kind and unwaveringly loyal, who’d uprooted his whole life for the people he cared for. Rebecca, with scars on her body and heart, who was the kindest soul Jack had ever known, but wouldn’t hesitate to stand up for anyone being mistreated. Jack himself, who’d left behind his sweetheart and his life to protect the people he couldn’t let go of. Catriona, willing to drop everything in her life to protect the people she cared about. And Angus, who’d been abandoned by his father and his so-called friends, tortured at the hands of a monster, and shattered even more by people he thought he could trust. But together, they’d put each other back together. They’d come back from the ashes. Will, Rebecca, Moira, Catriona and Angus raised their glasses as well.

“To the phoenix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't believe this is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who read, commented, and kudosed. I've had a fantastic time writing this story and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have!


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